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LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


(The  Chandos  Portrait,  National  Portrait  Gallery,  London  ) 


THE  COMPLETE  WORKS  OF 

^tlUatn  ^jjafefsptare 

amiti)  a  ILife  of  tf)e  fort,  iExs 
planatoeg  jfoot=notes,  Critical  f 
Notes  ana  a  ffirlossartal  iniiex 

BY  THE 

Rev.  Henry  N.  Hudson,  LL.  D. 
IbarrarO  l£&ttion 
in 

©toentg  "Folumes 

fcUustratefc 
VoL.  I 


BOSTON,  U.S.A. 

GINN  &  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 

C&e  ^tfoenaetun  JJresa 

1900 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1880,  by 
Henry  N.  Hudson, 

in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


TO  THE  MEMORY 


OF 


gatxijeX  '®$SXjefcsljetv 


OUR  GREATEST  ORATOR,  STATESMAN,  AUTHOR,  THE  SAVER  OF 

our  National  Union,  the  Crown  and  Consummation  of 
American  Intellect  and  Manhood,  this  edition 
of  his  favourite  Poet  is,  with  reverential 

AFFECTION,  INSCRIBED  BY  THE 


Editor. 


PREFACE. 


* 


- ♦— 

THE  most  obvious  peculiarity  of  this  edition  is,  that  it 
has  two  sets  of  notes ;  one  mainly  devoted  to  explain¬ 
ing  the  text,  and  printed  at  the  foot  of  the  page ;  the  other 
mostly  occupied  with  matters  of  textual  comment  and  criti¬ 
cism,  and  printed  at  the  end  of  each  play.  Of  course  the 
purpose  of  this  double  annotation  is,  to  suit  the  work,  as  far 
as  practicable,  to  the  uses  both  of  the  general  reader  and  of 
the  special  student.  Now,  whatever  of  explanation  general 
readers  may  need,  they  naturally  prefer  to  have  it  directly 
before  them ;  and  in  at  least  nine  cases  out  of  ten  they  will 
pass  over  an  obscure  word  or  phrase  or  allusion  without  un¬ 
derstanding  it,  rather  than  stay  to  look  up  the  explanation 
either  in  another  volume  or  in  another  part  of  the  same 
volume.  Often,  too,  in  case  the  explanation  be  not  directly 
at  hand,  they  will  go  elsewhere  in  quest  of  it,  and  then  find, 
after  all,  that  the  editor  has  left  the  matter  unexplained ;  so 
that  the  search  will  be  to  no  purpose  :  whereas,  with  the  plan 
of  foot-notes,  they  will  commonly  see  at  once  how  the  matter 
stands,  and  what  they  have  to  expect,  and  so  will  be  spared 
the  labour  and  vexation  of  a  fruitless  quest. 

It  scarce  need  be  said  that  with  special  students  the  case 
is  very  different.  In  studying  such  an  author  as  Shake¬ 
speare,  these  naturally  expect  to  light  upon  many  things  for 
the  full  discussion  or  elucidation  of  which  they  will  have  to 
go  beyond  the  page  before  them ;  though  I  believe  even 
these  like  to  have  the  matter  within  convenient  reach  and 


Y 


PREFACE. 


VI 

easy  reference.  At  all  events,  they  are,  or  well  may  be, 
much  less  apt  to  get  so  intent  on  the  author’s  thought,  and 
so  drawn  onwards  by  the  interest  of  the  work,  but  that  they 
can  readily  pause,  and  turn  elsewhere,  to  study  out  such 
points  as  may  call,  or  seem  to  call,  for  particular  investiga¬ 
tion.  In  fact,  general  readers,  for  the  most  part,  pay  little 
or  no  attention  to  the  language  of  what  they  are  reading, 
and  seldom  if  ever  interrogate,  or  even  think  of,  the  words, 
save  when  the  interest  of  the  matter  is  choked  or  checked 
by  some  strangeness  or  obscurity  of  expression ;  whereas 
special  students  commonly  are  or  should  be  carrying  on  a 
silent  process  of  verbal  interrogation,  even  when  the  matter 
is  their  chief  concern  :  and  as  these  are  more  sharp-sighted 
and  more  on  the  look-out  for  verbal  difficulties  than  the  for¬ 
mer,  so  they  are  less  impatient  of  the  pauses  required  for 
out-of-the-way  explanation. 

This  edition  has  been  undertaken,  and  the  plan  of  it 
shaped,  with  a  special  view  to  meeting  what  is  believed  to 
be  a  general  want,  and  what  has  indeed  been  repeatedly 
urged  as  such  within  the  last  few  years.  It  has  been  said, 
and,  I  think,  justly  said,  that  a  need  is  widely  felt  of  an 
edition  of  Shakespeare,  with  such  and  so  much  of  explana¬ 
tory  comment  as  may  suffice  for  the  state  of  those  unlearned 
but  sane-thoughted  and  earnest  readers  who  have,  or  wish  to 
have,  their  tastes  raised  and  set  to  a  higher  and  heartier  kind 
of  mental  feeding  than  the  literary  smoke  and  'chaff  of  the 
time.  I  have  known  many  bright  and  upward-looking 
minds,  —  minds  honestly  craving  to  drink  from  the  highei 
and  purer  springs  of  intellectual  power  and  beauty,  —  who 
were  frank  to  own  that  it  was  a  sin  and  a  shame  not  to  love 
Shakespeare,  but  who  could  hardly,  if  at  all,  make  that  love 
come  free  and  natural  to  them. 

To  be  plying  such  minds  with  arguments  of  duty,  or  with 
thoughts  of  the  good  to  be  gained  by  standing  through  un- 


PREFACE. 


VU 

pleasant  task-work,  seems  to  me  a  rather  ungracious  and 
impotent  business.  For  it  has  long  been  a  settled  axiom 
that  the  proper  office  of  poetry  is  to  please ;  of  the  highest 
poetry,  to  make  wisdom  and  virtue  pleasant,  to  crown  the 
True  and  the  Good  with  delight  and  joy.  This  is  the  very 
constituent  of  the  poet’s  art ;  that  without  which  it  has  no 
adequate  reason  for  being.  To  clothe  the  austere  forms  of 
truth  and  wisdom  with  heart-taking  beauty  and  sweetness,  is 
its  life  and  law.  Poetry,  then,  ought  of  course  to  be  read  as 
poetry  ;  and  when  not  read  with  pleasure,  the  right  grace  and 
profit  of  the  reading  are  missed.  For  the  proper  instructive- 
ness  of  poetry  is  essentially  dependant  on  its  pleasantness ; 
whereas  in  other  forms  of  writing  this  order  is  or  may  be 
reversed.  The  sense  or  the  conscience  of  what  is  morally 
good  and  right  should  indeed  have  a  hand,  and  a  prerogative 
hand,  in  shaping  our  pleasures ;  and  so  indeed  it  must  be, 
else  the  pleasures  will  needs  be  transient,  and  even  the  seed¬ 
time  of  future  pains.  *  So  right-minded  people  ought  to 
desire,  and  do  desire,  to  find  pleasure  in  what  is  right  and 
good ;  the  highest  pleasure  in  what  is  rightest  and  best : 
nevertheless  the  pleasure  of  the  thing  is  what  puts  its  healing, 
purifying,  regenerating  virtue  into  act ;  and  to  converse  with 
what  is  in  itself  beautiful  and  good  without  tasting  any  pleas¬ 
antness  in  it,  is  or  may  be  a  positive  harm. 

How,,  then,  in  reference  to  Shakespeare,  is  the  case  of 
common  readers  to  be  met?  As  before  remarked,  to  urge 
reasons  of  duty  is  quite  from  the  purpose  :  reading  Shake¬ 
speare  as  duty  and  without  pleasure  is  of  no  use,  save  as  it 
may  lift  and  draw  them  into  a  sense  of  his  pleasantness. 
The  question  is,  therefore,  how  to  make  him  pleasant  and  at¬ 
tractive  to  them ;  how  to  put  him  before  them,  so  that  his 
spirit  may  have  a  fair  chance  to  breathe  into  them,  and  quick¬ 
en  their  congenial  susceptibilities ;  for,  surely,  his  soul  and 
theirs  are  essentially  attuned  to  the  same  music.  Doubtless 


Vlll 


PREFACE. 


a  full  sense  of  his  pleasantness  is  not  to  be  extemporized : 
with  most  of  us,  nay,  with  the  best  of  us,  this  is  and  must  be 
a  matter  of  growth :  none  but  Shakespeare  himself  can 
educate  us  into  a  love  of  Shakespeare ;  and  such  education, 
indeed  all  education ,  is  a  work  of  time.  But  I  must  insist 
upon  it,  that  his  works  can  and  should  be  so  edited,  that 
average  readers  may  find  enough  of  pleasantness  in  them 
from  the  first  to  hold  them  to  the  perusal :  and  when  they 
have  been  so  held  long  enough  for  the  workmanship  to  steal 
its  virtue  and  sweetness  into  them,  then  they  will  be  naturally 
and  freely  carried  onwards  to  the  condition  where  “  love  is 
an  unerring  light,  and  joy  its  own  security.” 

These  remarks,  I  believe,  indicate,  as  well  as  I  know  how 
to  do,  my  idea —  I  can  hardly  say,  I  dare  not  say,  my  ideal  — 
of  what  a  popular  edition  of  Shakespeare  ought  to  be.  The 
editorial  part  should,  as  far  as  possible,  be  so  cast  and  tem¬ 
pered  and  ordered  as  to  make  the  Poet’s  pages  pleasant  and 
attractive  to  common  minds.  Generally  to  such  minds,  and 
often  even  to  uncommon  minds,  Shakespeare’s  world  may 
well  seem  at  first  a  strange  world,  —  strange  not  only  for  the 
spiritualized  realism  of  it,  but  because  it  is  so  much  more 
deeply  and  truly  natural  than  the  book-world  to  which  they 
have  been  accustomed.  The  strangeness  of  the  place,  togeth¬ 
er  with  the  difficulty  they  find  in  clearly  seeing  the  real  forms 
and  relations  of  the  objects  before  them,  is  apt  to  render  the 
place  unattractive,  if  not  positively  repulsive,  to  them.  The 
place  is  so  emphatically  the  native  home  of  both  the  soul 
and  the  senses,  that  they  feel  lost  in  it ;  and  this  because 
they  have  so  long  travelled  in  literary  regions  where  the  soul 
and  the  senses  have  been  trained  into  an  estrangement  from 
their  proper  home.  It  is  like  coming  back  to  realities  after 
having  strayed  among  shadows  till  the  shadows  have  come  to 
seem  realities. 

Not  seldom  the  very  naturalness  of  Shakespeare’s  world 


PREFACE. 


IX 


frightens  unaccustomed  readers  :  they  find,  or  feel,  so  to 
speak,  a  kind  of  estranged  familiarity  about  it,  as  of  a  place 
they  have  once  known,  but  have  lost  the  memory  of ;  so  that 
it  seems  to  them  a  land  peopled  with  the  ghosts  of  what  had 
long  ago  been  to  them  real  living  things.  Thus  the  effect,  for 
some  time,  is  rather  to  scare  and  chill  their  interest  than  to 
kindle  and  heighten  it.  And  the  Poet  is  continually  popping 
his  thoughts  upon  them  so  pointedly,  so  vividly,  so  directly, 
so  unceremoniously,  that  their  sensibilities  are  startled,  and 
would  fain  shrink  back  within  the  shell  of  custom  ;  so  different 
is  it  from  the  pulpy,  pointless,  euphemistic  roundaboutness 
and  volubility  which  they  have  been  used  to  hearing  from 
the  Pulpit,  the  Press,  the  vulgar  oratory,  and  the  popular 
authorship  of  the  day.  Therewithal,  the  Poet  often  springs 
upon  them  such  abrupt  and  searching  revelations  of  their 
inner  selves,  so  stings  them  with  his  truth,  so  wounds  them 
with  his  healing,  and  causes  such  an  undreamed-of  birth  of 
thoughts  and  feelings  within  them,  that  they  stare  about 
them  with  a  certain  dread  and  shudder,  and  “  tremble  like 
a  guilty  thing  surprised,”  as  in  the  presence  of  a  magician 
that  has  stolen  their  inmost  secrets  from  them,  and  is  showing 
them  up  to  the  world. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Besides  the  unfamiliarity  of  Shake¬ 
speare’s  matter,  so  many  and  so  great  lingual  changes  have 
taken  place  since  his  time,  and,  still  more,  his  manner  both 
of  thought  and  expression  is  so  intensely  idiomatic,  his  diction 
so  suggestive  and  overcharged  with  meaning,  his  imagery  so 
strong  and  bold,  his  sense  so  subtile  and  delicate,  his  mod¬ 
ulation  so  various  and  of  such  solid  and  piercing  sweetness, 
that  common  readers  naturally  have  no  little  difficulty  in 
coming  to  an  easy  and  familiar  converse  with  him.  On  some 
of  these  points,  an  editor  can  give  little  or  no  positive  help  : 
he  can  at  the  best  but  remove  or  lessen  hindrances,  and  per¬ 
haps  throw  in  now  and  then  a  kindling  word  or  breath.  But, 


X 


PREFACE. 


on  others  of  them,  it  lies  within  an  editor’s  province  to 
render  all  the  positive  aid  that  common  readers  need  for 
making  them  intelligently  and  even  delightedly  at  home  with 
the  Poet. 

Of  course  this  is  to  be  mostly  done  by  furnishing  such  and 
so  much  of  comment  and  citation  as  may  be  required  for 
setting  the  Poet’s  meaning  out  clear  and  free,  and  by  trans¬ 
lating  strange  or  unfamiliar  words,  phrases,  and  modes  of 
speech  into  the  plain,  current  language  of  the  day.  And 
here  it  is  of  the  first  importance  that  an  editor  have  the  mind, 
or  the  art,  not  only  to  see  things  plainly,  but  to  say  a  plain 
thing  in  a  plain  way ;  or,  in  the  happy  phrase  of  old  Roger 
Ascham,  to  “  think  as  wise  men  do,  and  speak  as  common 
people  do.”  And  the  secret  of  right  editing  is,  to  help  aver¬ 
age  readers  over  the  author’s  difficulties  with  as  little  sense 
as  possible  of  being  helped ;  to  lead  them  up  his  heights  and 
through  his  depths  with  as  little  sense  as  possible  of  being  led. 
To  do  this,  the  editor  must  have  such  a  kind  and  measure  of 
learning  in  the  field  of  his  labour  as  can  come  only  by  many 
years  of  careful  study  and  thought ;  and  he  must  keep  the 
details  and  processes  of  his  learning  out  of  sight,  putting  forth 
only  the  last  and  highest  results,  the  blossom  and  fragrance, 
of  his  learnedness :  and  the  editor  who  does  not  know  too 
much  in  his  subject  to  be  showing  his  knowledge  is  green 
and  crude,  and  so  far  unfitted  for  his  task.  Generally  speak¬ 
ing,  it  is  doubtless  better  to  withhold  a  needed  explanation 
than  to  offer  a  needless  one ;  because  the  latter  looks  as  if 
the  editor  were  intent  on  thrusting  himself  between  the  author 
and  the  reader. 

Probably  we  all  understand  that  the  best  style  in  writing  is 
where  average  minds,  on  reading  it,  are  prompted  to  say, 
“Why,  almost  anybody  could  have  done  that”;  and  a  style 
that  is  continually  making  such  readers  sensible  of  their  ig¬ 
norance,  or  of  their  inferiority  to  the  writer,  is  not  good.  For 


PREFACE. 


XI 


the  proper  light  of  a  truly  luminous  speaker  is  one  that  strikes 
up  a  kindred  light  in  the  hearer ;  so  that  the  light  seems  to 
come,  and  indeed  really  does  come,  from  the  hearer’s  own 
mind.  It  is  much  the  same  in  editing  a  standard  author  for 
common  use.  And  for  an  editor  to  be  all  the  while,  or  often, 
putting  average  readers  in  mind  how  ignorant  and  inferior 
they  are,  is  not  the  best  way,  nor  the  right  way,  to  help 
them. 

But  what  seems  specially  needful  to  be  kept  in  mind  is, 
that  when  common  people  read  Shakespeare,  it  is  not  to 
learn  etymology,  or  grammar,  or  philology,  or  lingual  antiqui¬ 
ties,  or  criticism,  or  the  technicalities  of  scholarism,  but  to 
learn  Shakespeare  himself ;  to  understand  the  things  he  puts 
before  them,  to  take-in  his  thought,  to  taste  his  wisdom,  to 
feel  his  beauty,  to  be  kindled  by  his  fire,  to  be  refreshed  with 
his  humour,  to  glow  with  his  rapture,  and  to  be  stolen  from 
themselves  and  transported  into  his  moral  and  intellectual 
whereabout ;  in  a  word,  to  live,  breathe,  think,  and  feel  with 
him.  I  am  so  simple  and  old-fashioned  as  to  hold  that,  in 
so  reading  the  Poet,  they  are  putting  him  to  the  very  best 
and  highest  use  of  which  he  is  capable.  Even  their  intellects, 
I  think,  will  thrive  far  better  so,  than  by  straining  themselves 
to  a  course  of  mere  intellectualism.  All  which  means,  to  be 
sure,  that  far  more  real  good  will  come,  even  to  the  mind,  by 
foolishly  enjoying  Shakespeare  than  by  learnedly  parsing  him. 
So  that  here  I  am  minded  to  apply  the  saying  of  Wordsworth, 
that  “  he  is  oft  the  wisest  man  who  is  not  wise  at  all.” 

Now  I  cannot  choose  but  think  that,  if  this  were  always 
duly  bornh  in  mind,  we  should  see  much  more  economy  of 
erudition  than  we  do.  It  is  the  instinct  of  a  crude  or  con¬ 
ceited  learning  to  be  ever  emphasizing  itself,  and  poking  its 
fingers  into  the  readers’  eyes  :  but  a  ripe  and  well-assimilated 
learning  does  not  act  thus  :  it  is  a  fine  spirit  working  in  the 
mind’s  blood,  and  not  a  sort  of  foam  or  scum  mantling  its 


xii 


PREFACE. 


surface,  or  an  outgrowth  bristling  into  notice.  So  that  here, 
as  in  all  true  strength,  modesty  rules  the  transpiration.  Ac¬ 
cordingly  an  editor’s  proper  art  is  to  proceed,  not  by  a  for¬ 
mal  and  conscious  use  of  learning,  but  by  the  silent  efficacy 
thereof  transfusing  itself  insensibly  into  and  through  his  work, 
so  as  to  accomplish  its  purpose  without  being  directly  seen. 

Nor  is  Shakespeare’s  language  so  antiquated,  or  his  idiom 
of  thought  so  remote  from  ordinary  apprehension,  as  to  re¬ 
quire  a  minute,  or  cumbrous,  or  oppressive  erudition  for 
making  his  thoughts  intelligible  to  average  minds.  His 
diction,  after  all,  is  much  nearer  the  common  vernacular  of 
the  day  than  that  of  his  editors  :  for  where  would  these  be  if 
they  did  not  write  in  a  learned  style  ?  To  be  sure,  here,  as 
elsewhere,  an  editor’s  art,  or  want  of  art,  can  easily  find  or 
make  ever  so  many  difficulties,  in  order  to  magnify  itself  and 
its  office  by  meeting  them,  or  by  seeming  to  meet  them. 
And  in  fact  it  has  now  become,  or  is  fast  becoming,  very  much 
the  fashion  to  treat  Shakespeare  in  this  way ;  an  elaborate 
and  self-conscious  erudition  using  him  as  a  sort  of  perch  to 
flap  its  wings  and  crow  from.  So  we  have  had  and  are  hav¬ 
ing  editions  of  his  plays  designed  for  common  use,  wherein 
the  sunlight  of  his  poetry  is  so  muffled  and  strangled  by  a 
thick  haze  of  minute,  technical,  and  dictionary  learning,  that 
common  eyes  can  hardly  catch  any  fresh  and  clear  beams  of 
it.  Small  points  and  issues  almost  numberless,  and  many  of 
them  running  clean  off  into  distant  tenth-cousin  matters,  are 
raised,  as  if  poetry  so  vital  and  organic  as  his,  and  with  its 
mouth  so  full  of  soul- music,  were  but  a  subject  for  lingual 
and  grammatical  dissection  ;  or  a  thing  to  be  studied  through 
a  microscope,  and  so  to  be  “  examined,  ponder’d,  search’d, 
probed,  vex’d,  and  criticised.”  Is  not  all  this  very  much  as 
if  the  main  business  of  readers,  with  Shakespeare’s  page 
before  them,  were  to  “pore,  and  dwindle  as  they  pore”? 

Here  the  ruling  thought  seems  to  be,  that  the  chief  profit 


PREFACE. 


Xlll 

of  studying  Shakespeare  is  to  come  by  analyzing  and  parsing 
his  sentences,  not  by  understanding  and  enjoying  his  poetry. 
But,  assuredly,  this  is  not  the  way  to  aid  and  encourage 
people  in  the  study  of  Shakespeare.  They  are  not  to  be 
inspired  with  a  right  love  or  taste  for  him  by  having  his 
lines  encumbered  with  such  commentatorial  redundances 
and  irrelevancies.  Rather  say,  such  a  course  naturally  ren¬ 
ders  the  Poet  an  unmitigable  bore  to  them,  and  can  hardly 
fail  to  disgust  and  repel  them ;  unless,  perchance,  it  may 
superinduce  upon  them  a  certain  dry-rot  of  formalistic  learn¬ 
ing.  For,  in  a  vast  many  cases,  the  explanations  are  far 
more  obscure  to  the  average  reader  than  the  things  ex¬ 
plained  ;  and  he  may  well  despair  of  understanding  the 
Poet,  when  he  so  often  finds  it  impossible  to  understand 
his  explainers.  Or  the  effect  of  such  a  course,  if  it  have 
any  but  a  negative  effect,  can  hardly  be  other  than  to  tease 
and  card  the  common  sense  out  of  people,  and  train  them 
into  learned  and  prating  dunces,  instead  of  making  them 
intelligent,  thoughtful,  happy  men  and  women  in  the  ordi¬ 
nary  tasks,  duties,  and  concerns  of  life. 

Thus  Shakespeare  is  now  in  a  fair  way  to  undergo  the 
same  fate  which  a  much  greater  and  better  book  has  already 
undergone.  For  even  so  a  great  many  learned  minds,  in¬ 
stead  of  duly  marking  how  little  need  be  said,  and  how 
simply  that  little  should  be  said,  have  tried,  apparently,  how 
much  and  how  learnedly  they  could  write  upon  the  Bible  ; 
how  many  nice  questions  they  could  raise,  and  what  elabo¬ 
rate  comments  they  could  weave  about  its  contents.  Take, 
for  example,  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount :  left  to  its  natural 
and  proper  working,  that  brief  piece  of  writing  has  in  it  more 
of  true  culture-force  or  culture-inspiration  than  all  the  mere 
scientific  books  in  the  world  put  together  :  and  learned  com¬ 
mentaries  stand,  or  claim  to  stand,  in  the  rank  of  scientific 
works.  Yet  even  here,  as  experience  has  amply  proved,  a 


xiv 


PREFACE. 


sort  of  learned  incontinence  can  easily  so  intricate  and  per¬ 
plex  the  matter,  and  spin  the  sense  out  into  such  a  curious 
and  voluminous  interpretation,  as  fairly  to  st\vamp  plain 
minds,  and  put  them  quite  at  a  loss  as  to  what  the  Divine 
utterances  mean.  The  thing  is  clear  enough,  until  a  garru¬ 
lous  and  obtrusive  learning  takes  it  in  hand ;  and  then  dark¬ 
ness  begins  to  gather  round  it. 

And  so  the  Bible  generally,  as  we  all  know,  has  been  so 
worried  and  belaboured  with  erudite,  or  ignorant,  b'ut  at  all 
events  diffusive,  long-winded,  and  obstructive  commentary ; 
its  teachings  and  efficacies  have  got  so  strangled  by  the 
interminable  yarns  of  interpretation  spun  about  them ;  that 
now  at  length  common  people  have  pretty  much  lost  both 
their  faith  in  it  and  their  taste  for  it :  reverence  for  it  has 
come  to  be  regarded  as  little  better  than  an  exploded  super¬ 
stition  :  and  indeed  its  light  can  hardly  struggle  or  filtrate 
through  the  dense  vapours  of  learned  and  elaborate  verbosity 
exhaled  from  subjacent  regions.  The  tendency  now  is  to 
replace  the  Bible  with  Shakespeare  as  our  master- code  of 
practical  wisdom  and  guidance.  I  am  far,  very  far  indeed, 
from  regarding  this  as  a  sign  of  progress,  either  moral  or 
intellectual :  viewed  merely  in  reference  to  literary  taste,  the 
Bible  is  incomparably  beyond  any  other  book  in  the  world : 
but,  if  such  a  substitution  must  be  made,  Shakespeare  is 
probably  the  best.  The  Poet  himself  tells  us,  “  they  that 
dally  nicely  with  words  may  quickly  make  them  wanton.” 
And  so,  to  be  sure,  the  process  has  set  in,  and  is  already 
well  advanced,  of  smothering  his  proper  light  beneath  com- 
mentatorial  surplusage  and  rubbish. 

So  strong  is  the  conceit  of  studying  all  things  scientifi¬ 
cally,  that  we  must,  forsooth,  have  Shakespeare  used  as  the 
raw  material  of  scientific  manufacture.  It  seems  to  be  pre¬ 
sumed  that  people  cannot  rightly  feed  upon  his  poetry,  unless 
it  be  first  digested  for  them  into  systematic  shape  by  passing 


PREFACE. 


XV 


through  some  gerund-grinding  laboratory.  But  the  plain 
truth  is,  that  works  of  imagination  cannot  be  mechanized 
and  done  over  into  the  forms  of  science,  without  a  total 
dissipation  of  their  life  and  spirit,  of  all  indeed  that  is  prop¬ 
erly  constitutive  in  them.  It  is  simply  like  dissecting  a  bird 
in  order  to  find  out  where  the  music  comes  from  and  how 
it  is  made. 

I  have,  perhaps,  dwelt  upon  this  topic  too  long,  and  may 
fitly  close  it  with  a  few  pertinent  words  from  Bacon,  which 
always  come  into  my  remembrance  when  thinking  on  the 
subject.  “The  first  distemper  of  learning,”  says  he,  “is 
when  men  study  words  and  not  matter.  And  how  is  it 
possible  but  this  should  have  an  operation  to  discredit  learn¬ 
ing,  even  with  vulgar  capacities,  when  they  see  learned  men’s 
works  like  the  first  letter  of  a  patent,  or  a  limned  book ; 
which,  though  it  hath  large  flourishes,  yet  is  but  a  letter? 
It  seems  to  me  that  Pygmalion’s  frenzy  is  a  good  emblem 
or  portraiture  of  this  vanity  :  for  words  are  but  the  images 
of  matter ;  and,  except  they  have  the  life  of  reason  and 
invention,  to  fall  in  love  with  them  is  all  one  as  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  picture.”  In  another  passage,  he  puts  the  matter  as 
follows  :  “  Surely,  like  as  many  substances  in  Nature  which 
are  solid  do  putrefy  and  corrupt  into  worms ;  so  it  is  the 
property  of  good  and  sound  knowledge  to  putrefy  and  dis¬ 
solve  into  a  number  of  subtile,  idle,  unwholesome,  and  (as 
I  may  term  them)  vermiculate  questions,  which  have  indeed 
a  kind  of  quickness  and  life  of  spirit,  but  no  soundness  of 
matter  or  goodness  of  quality.” 

To  preclude  misapprehension,  as  far  as  may  be,  I  must 
add  that  the  foregoing  remarks  have  an  eye  only  to  editions 
of  the  Poet  designed  for  common  use ;  and  so  cannot  be 
justly  construed  as  reflecting  on  such  as  look  mainly  to  the 
special  use  of  students  and  scholars.  Doubtless  there  may 
be,  nay,  there  must  be,  from  time  to  time,  say  as  often  as 


XVI 


PREFACE. 


once  in  forty  or  fifty  years,  highly  learned  editions  of  Shake¬ 
speare  ;  such,  for  instance,  as  Mr.  Howard  Furness’s  mag¬ 
nificent  Variorum,  which,  so  far  as  it  has  come,  is  a  truly 
monumental  achievement  of  learning,  judgment,  good  sense, 
and  conscientious,  painstaking  industry.  Of  course  such  a 
work  must  needs  enter  very  largely  into  the  details  and  pro¬ 
cesses  of  the  subject,  pursuing  a  great  many  points  out 
through  all  the  subtilties  and  intricacies  of  critical  inquiry. 
But,  for  the  generality  of  readers,  such  a  handling  of  the 
theme  is  obviously  quite  out  of  the  question :  in  this  hard 
working-day  world,  they  have  too  much  else  in  hand  to  be 
tracing  out  and  sifting  the  nice  questions  which  it  is  the 
business  of  a  profound  and  varied  scholarship  to  investigate 
and  settle ;  and  the  last  and  highest  results  of  such  scholar¬ 
ship  is  all  that  they  can  possibly  have  time  or  taste  for.  If 
any  one  says  that  common  readers,  such  as  at  least  ninety- 
nine  persons  in  a  hundred  are  and  must  be,  should  have  the 
details  and  processes  of  the  work  put  before  them,  that  so 
they  may  be  enabled  to  form  independent  judgments  for 
themselves ;  —  I  say,  whoever  talks  in  this  way  is  either 
under  a  delusion  himself,  or  else  means  to  delude  others. 
It  may  flatter  common  readers  to  be  told  that  they  are  just 
as  competent  to  judge  for  themselves  in  these  matters  as 
those  are  who  have  made  a  lifelong  study  of  them  :  but  the 
plain  truth  is,  that  such  readers  must  perforce  either  take  the 
results  of  deep  scholarship  on  trust,  or  else  not  have  them  at 
all;  and  none  but  a  dupe  or  a  quack,  or  perhaps  a  com¬ 
pound  of  the  two,  would  ever  think  of  representing  the 
matter  otherwise. 

But  the  main  business  of  this  Preface  is  yet  to  come,  and 
what  remains  must  be  chiefly  occupied  with  certain  questions 
touching  the  Poet’s  text.  And  here  I  must  first  make  a 
brief  general  statement  of  the  condition  in  which  his  text  has 


PREFACE. 


XVII 


come  down  to  us,  leaving  the  particular  details  in  this  kind 
to  be  noted  in  connection  with  the  several  plays  themselves. 

Of  the  thirty-eight  plays  included  in  this  edition,  sixteen, 
or,  if  we  count-in  the  originals  of  the  Second  and  Third  Parts 
of  King  Henry  the  Sixth,  eighteen,  were  published,  severally 
and  successively,  in  what  are  known  as  the  quarto  editions, 
during  the  Poet’s  life.  Some  of  them  were  printed  in  that 
form  several  times,  but  often  with  considerable  variations  of 
text.  One  more,  Othello,  was  issued  in  that  form  in  1622, 
six  years  after  the  Poet’s  death.  Copies  of  these  editions 
are  still  extant,  though  in  some  cases  exceedingly  rare. 
Most  of  these  issues  were  undoubtedly  “  stolen  and  surrep¬ 
titious  ”  ;  and  it  is  nowise  likely  that  in  any  of  them  a  single 
page  of  the  proofs  was  ever  corrected  by  Shakespeare  him¬ 
self.  In  the  popular  literature  of  his  time,  proof-reading 
generally  was  done,  if  done  at  all,  with  such  a  degree  of  slov¬ 
enliness  as  no.  one  would  think  of  tolerating  now.  And  that 
proof-sheets  can  be  rightly  and  properly  corrected  by  none 
but  the  author  himself,  or  by  one  very  closely  and  minutely 
familiar  with  his  mind,  his  mouth,  and  his  hand,  is  a  lesson 
which  an  experience  of  more  than  thirty  years  in  the  matter 
has  taught  me  beyond  all  perad venture.  And,  in  fact,  the 
printing  in  most  of  these  quarto  issues  is  so  shockingly  bad, 
that  no  one  can  gain  an  adequate  idea  of  how  bad  it  is, 
except  by  minutely  studying  the  text  as  there  given,  and 
comparing  it  in  detail  with  the  text  as  given  in  modern  edi¬ 
tions. 

All  the  forecited  plays,  with  one  exception,  Pericles,  were 
set  forth  anew  in  the  celebrated  folio  of  1623,  seven  years 
after  the  Poet’s  death.  Most  of  them  are  indeed  printed 
much  better  there  than  in  the  earlier  issues,  though  some  of 
them  are  well  known  to  have  been  printed  from  quarto 
copies.  Therewithal  the  folio  set  forth,  for  the  first  time,  so 
far  as  is  known,  all  the  other  plays  included  in  this  edition, 


XV111 


PREFACE. 


except  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen.  The  volume  was  published, 
professedly  at  least,  under  the  editorial  care  of  the  Poet’s 
friends  and  fellow- actors,  John  Heminge  and  Henry  Condell. 

The  printing  of  the  folio  is  exceedingly  unequal :  in  some 
of  the  plays,  as,  for  instance,  Julius  Ccesar ,  Twelfth  Night \ 
and  As  You  Like  It ,  it  is  remarkably  good  for  the  time, 
insomuch  that  the  text,  generally,  is  got  into  an  orderly  and 
intelligible  state  without  much  trouble ;  while  others,  as 
All's  Well '  Coriolanus ,  and  Timon  of  Athens,  abound  in  the 
grossest  textual  corruptions,  so  that  the  labour  of  rectifica¬ 
tion  seems  to  be  literally  endless.  Even  where  the  printing 
is  best,  there  are  still  so  many  palpable,  and  also  so  many 
more  or  less  probable,  misprints,  that  the  text,  do  the  best 
we  can  with  it,  must  often  stand  under  considerable  uncer¬ 
tainty.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  in  some  parts  of  the  volume 
the  Editors  themselves  may  have  attended  somewhat  to  the 
correcting  of  the  proofs,  while  in  others  theyjeft  it  entirely 
to  the  printers.  Of  course  all  the  plays  then  first  published 
must  have  been  printed  either  from  the  author’s  own  manu¬ 
scripts,  or  else  from  play-house  transcripts  of  them.  Doubt¬ 
less  these  were  made  by  different  hands,  sometimes  with 
reasonable  care,  sometimes  otherwise,  and  so  with  widely- 
varying  degrees  of  accuracy  and  legibility. 

In  their  “Address  to  the  Readers,”  the  Editors,  after 
referring  to  the  earlier  quarto  issues,  go  on  as  follows : 
“  Even  those  are  now  offered  to  your  view  cured  and  per¬ 
fect  of  their  limbs,  and  all  the  rest  absolute  in  their  numbers 
as  he  [the  author]  conceived  them ;  who,  as  he  was  a 
happy  imitator  of  Nature,  was  a  most  gentle  expresser  of 
it :  and  what  he  thought,  he  uttered  with  that  easiness,  that 
we  have  scarce  received  from  him  a  blot  in  his  papers.” 
Heminge  and  Condell  appear  to  have  been  honest  and 
amiable  men ;  but  they  naturally  felt  a  strong  interest  in 
having  the  volume  sell  well,  and  so  were  moved  to  recom- 


PREFACE. 


XIX 


mend  it  as  highly  as  they  could  to  purchasers.  Probably 
there  was  something  of  truth  in  what  they  said,  perhaps 
enough  to  excuse,  if  not  to  justify  them  in  saying  it :  never¬ 
theless  it  is  perfectly  certain  that  their  words  were  not  true 
to  the  full  extent ;  and  most  likely  what  was  true  only  of  a 
portion  of  the  volume  they  deemed  it  right  to  put  forth  in  a 
general  way  as  if  applicable  to  the  whole,  without  staying 
to  express  any  limitations  or  exceptions.  The  folio  was 
reprinted  in  1632,  again  in  1664,  and  yet  again  in  1685. 
The  folio  of  1632  was  set  forth  with  a  good  many  textual 
changes,  made  by  an  unknown  hand;  sometimes  correc¬ 
tions,  and  sometimes  corruptions,  but  none  of  them  carrying 
any  authority.  Changes  of  text,  though  less  both  in  number 
and  importance,  were  also  made  in  the  third  and  fourth 
folios. 

Before  passing  on  from  this  topic,  I  must  add  that,  after 
1623,  single  plays  continued  to  be  reprinted,  from  time  to 
time,  in  quarto  form.  But  as  these  are  seldom  of  any  use 
towards  ascertaining  or  helping  the  text,  it  seems  not  worth 
the  while  to  specify  them  in  detail.  Probably  the  most  valu¬ 
able  of  them  is  that  of  Othello ,  issued  in  1630.  Others  of 
them  are  occasionally  referred  to  in  the  Critical  Notes. 

As  I  have  frequent  occasion  to  cite  a  famous  volume, 
which  I  designate  as  “  Collier’s  second  folio,”  it  appears 
needful  to  give  some  account  thereof  in  this  place.  —  In 
1849,  Mr.  J.  P.  Collier,  a  very  learned  and  eminent  Shake¬ 
spearian,  lighted  upon  and  purchased  a  copy  of  the  second 
folio  containing  a  very  large  number  of  verbal,  literal,  and 
punctuative  alterations  in  manuscript ;  all  of  course  intend¬ 
ed  as  corrections  of  the  text.  At  what  time  or  times, 
and  by  what  hand  or  hands,  these  changes  were  made,  has 
not  been  settled,  nor  is  likely  to  be.  For  some  time  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  pretty  warm  controversy  about  them. 
All,  I  believe,  are  now  pretty  much  agreed,  and  certainly 


XX 


PREFACE. 


such  is  my  own  judgment,  that  none  of  them  have  any  claim 
to  be  regarded  as  authentic  :  most  of  them  are  corruptions 
decidedly ;  but  a  considerable  number  may  be  justly  spoken 
of  as  corrections ;  and  some  of  them  are  exceedingly  happy 
and  valuable.  To  be  sure,  of  those  that  may  be  called  apt 
and  good,  the  larger  portion  had  been  anticipated  by  mod¬ 
ern  editors,  and  so  had  passed  into  the  current  text.  Still 
there  are  enough  of  original  or  unanticipated  corrections  to 
render  the  volume  an  important  contribution  towards  textual 
rectification.  Nevertheless  they  all  stand  on  the  common 
footing  of  conjectural  emendation,  and  so  carry  no  authority 
in  their  hand  but  that  of  inherent  fitness  and  propriety. 

Herewith  I  must  also  mention  another  copy  of  the  same 
folio,  which  is  sometimes  referred  to  in  my  Critical  Notes. 
This  was  owned  by  the  late  Mr.  S.  W.  Singer,  also  one  of 
the  most  learned  and  eminent  Shakespearians  of  his  time. 
All  that  need  be  said  of  it  here  may  as  well  be  given  in 
Singer’s  own  words  :  “  In  June,  1852,  I  purchased  from  Mr. 
Willis,  the  bookseller,  a  copy  of  the  second  folio  edition  of 
Shakespeare,  in  its  original  binding,  which,  like  that  of  Mr. 
Collier,  contains  very  numerous  manuscript  corrections  by 
several  hands ;  the  typographical  errors,  with  which  that 
edition  abounds,  are  sedulously  corrected,  and  the  writers 
have  also  tried  their  hands  at  conjectural  emendation  exten¬ 
sively.  Many  of  these  emendations  correspond  with  those 
in  Mr.  Collier’s  volume,  but  chiefly  in  those  cases  where  the 
error  in  the  old  copy  was  pretty  evident ;  but  the  readings 
often  vary,  and  sometimes  for  the  better.” 

Thus  much  may  suffice  for  indicating  generally  the  con¬ 
dition  in  which  Shakespeare’s  plays  have  come  down  to  us. 
Of  course  the  early  quartos  and  the  first  folio  are,  in  the 
proper  sense,  our  only  authorities  for  the  Poet’s  text.  But 
his  text  has  not  been,  and  most  assuredly  never  will  be 
allowed  to  remain  in  the  condition  there  given.  The  labours 


PREFACE. 


xxi 


and  the  judgment  of  learned,  sagacious,  painstaking,  diligent 
workmen  in  the  field  have  had,  ought  to  have,  must  have,  a 
good  deal  of  weight  in  deciding  how  the  matter  should  go. 
And  now  the  question  confronts  us  whether,  after  all,  there 
is  any  likelihood  of  Shakespeare’s  text  being  ever  got  into  a 
satisfactory  state.  Perhaps,  nay,  I  may  as  well  say  probably, 
not.  Probably  the  best  to  be  looked  for  here  is  a  greater 
or  less  degree  of  approximation  to  such  a  state.  At  all 
events,  if  it  come  at  all,  it  is  to  come  as  the  slow  cumulative 
result  of  a  great  many  minds  working  jointly,  or  severally, 
and  successively,  and  each  contributing  its  measure,  be  it 
more,  be  it  less,  towards  the  common  cause.  A  mite  done 
here,  and  a  mite  done  there,  will  at  length,  when  time  shall 
cast  up  the  sum,  accomplish  we  know  not  what. 

The  Bible  apart,  Shakespeare’s  dramas  are,  by  general  con¬ 
sent,  the  greatest  classic  and  literary  treasure  of  the  world. 
His  text,  with  all  the  admitted  imperfections  on  its  head,  is 
nevertheless  a  venerable  and  sacred  thing,  and  must  nowise 
be  touched  but  under  a  strong  restraining  sense  of  pious  awe. 
Woe  to  the  man  that  exercises  his  critical  surgery  here  with¬ 
out  a  profound  reverence  for  the  subject !  All  glib  ingenuity, 
all  shifty  cleverness,  should  be  sternly  warned  off  from  med¬ 
dling  with  the  matter.  Nothing  is  easier  than  making  or 
proposing  ingenious  and  plausible  corrections.  But  changes 
merely  ingenious  are  altogether  worse  than  none  ;  and  who¬ 
ever  goes  about  the  work  with  his  mind  at  all  in  trim  for  it 
will  much  rather  have  any  corrections  he  may  make  or  pro¬ 
pose  flatly  condemned  as  bad,  than  have  that  sweetish  epithet 
politely  smiled,  or  sneered ’  upon  them.  On  the  other  hand, 
to  make  corrections  that  are  really  judicious,  corrections  that 
have  due  respect  to  all  sides  of  the  case,  and  fit  all  round, 
and  that  keep  strictly  within  the  limits  of  such  freedom  as 
must  be  permitted  in  the  presenting  of  so  great  a  classic  so 
deeply  hurt  with  textual  corruptions ;  —  this  is,  indeed,  just 


XXII 


PREFACE. 


the  nicest  and  most  delicate  art  in  the  whole  work  of  modern 
editorship.  And  as  a  due  application  of  this  art  requires  a 
most  circumspective  and  discriminating  judgment,  together 
with  a  life-long  acquaintance  with  the  Poet’s  mental  and  rhyth¬ 
mic  and  lingual  idiom  ;  so,  again,  there  needs  no  small  meas¬ 
ure  of  the  same  preparation,  in  order  to  a  judicious  estimate 
of  any  ripely-considered  textual  change. 

The  work  of  ascertaining  and  amending  Shakespeare’s  text 
systematically  began  with  Rowe  in  1709,  his  first  edition 
having  came  out  that  year,  his  second  in  1714.  The  work 
was  continued  by  Pope,  who  also  put  forth  two  editions,  in 
1723  and  1728.  Pope  was  followed  by  Theobald,  whose 
two  editions  appeared  in  1 733  and  1 740.  Then  came  Han- 
mer’s  edition  in  1743,  and  Warburton’s  in  1749.  All  through 
the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  process  was 
sedulously  continued  by  Johnson,  Capell,  Steevens,  Malone, 
Rann,  and  sundry  others.  Heath,  though  not  an  editor,  was 
hardly  inferior  to  any  of  them  in  understanding  and  judg¬ 
ment  ;  and  his  comments  remain  to  this  day  among  the  best 
we  have.  Most  of  these  men  were  very  strong  and  broad  in 
learning  and  sagacity,  and  in  the  other  furnishings  needful 
for  their  task ;  none  of  them  were  wanting  in  respect  for  the 
Poet ;  and  all  of  them  did  good  service. 

It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  many,  if  not  most,  of 
these  workmen  handled  the  text  with  excessive  freedom  ; 
and  perhaps  it  may  be  justly  said  that,  taken  all  together, 
they  corrupted  quite  as  much  as  they  corrected  it.  They 
seem  to  have  gone  somewhat  upon  the  principle  of  giving 
what,  in  their  judgment,  the  Poet  ought  to  have  written  ; 
whereas  the  thing  we  want  is  not  what  anybody  may  think  he 
ought  to  have  written,  but  what,  as  nearly  as  can  be  judged, 
he  actually  did  write.  Accordingly  much  labour  has  since 
had  to  be  spent  in  undoing  what  was  thus  overdone. 

During  the  present  century  the  process  of  correction  has 


PREFACE.  Xxiii 

been  kept  up,  but  much  more  temperately,  and  by  minds 
well  fitted  and  furnished  for  the  task,  though  probably,  as  a 
whole,  not  equal  to  the  earlier  series  of  workmen.  Among 
these  are  Singer,  Collier,  Dyce,  Staunton,  Halliwell,  and 
White,  faithful  and  highly  competent  labourers,  whose  names 
will  doubtless  hold  prominent  and  permanent  places  in  Shake¬ 
spearian  lore. 

The  excessive  freedom  in  textual  change  used  by  the  ear¬ 
lier  series  of  editors  has  naturally  had  the  effect  of  provoking 
a  reaction.  For  the  last  forty  years  or  thereabouts,  this 
reaction  has  been  in  progress,  and  is  now,  I  think,  at  its 
height,  having  reached  an  extreme  fully  as  great,  and  not 
a  whit  more  commendable  than  the  former  extreme.  Of 
course  this  can  hardly  fail  in  due  time  to  draw  on  another 
reaction ;  and  already  signs  are  not  wanting  that  such  a 
result  is  surely  forthcoming.  To  the  former  license  of  cor¬ 
rection  there  has  succeeded  a  license,  not  less  vicious,  of 
interpretation.  Explanations  the  most  strained,  far-fetched, 
and  over-subtile  are  now  very  much  the  order  of  the  day,  — 
things  sure  to  disgust  the  common  sense  of  sober,  candid, 
'circumspective,  cool-judging  minds.  It  is  said  that  the  old 
text  must  not  be  changed  save  in  cases  of  “  absolute  neces¬ 
sity  ”  ;  and  this  dictum  is  so  construed,  in  theory  at  least,  as 
to  prompt  and  cover  all  the  excesses  of  the  most  fanciful, 
fine-drawn,  and  futile  ingenuity.  The  thing  has  grown  to  the 
ridiculous  upshot  of  glozing  and  conjuring  stark  printer’s 
errors  into  poetic  beauties,  and  the  awkwardest  hitchings  and 
haltings  of  metre  into  “  elegant  retardations.”  To  minds  so 
captivated  with  their  own  ingenuity,  an  item  of  the  old  text 
that  is  utter  nonsense  is  specially  attractive ;  because,  to  be 
sure,  they  can  the  more  easily  spell  their  own  sense,  or  want 
of  sense,  into  it.  And  so  we  see  them  doggedly  tenacious 
of  such  readings  as  none  but  themselves  can  explain,  and 
fondly  concocting  such  explanations  thereof  as  none  but 


XXIV 


PREFACE. 


themselves  can  understand ;  tormenting  the  meaning  they 
want  out  of  words  that  are  no  more  akin  to  it  than  the 
multiplication-table  is  to  a  trilobite.  Surely,  then,  the  thing 
now  most  in  order  is  a  course  of  temperance  and  modera¬ 
tion,  a  calmness  and  equipoise  of  judgment,  steering  clear 
of  both  extremes,  and  sounding  in  harmony  with  plain  old 
common  sense,  one  ounce  of  which  is  worth  more  than  a 
ton  of  exegetical  ingenuity.  For  Shakespeare,  be  it  observed, 
is  just  our  great  imperial  sovereign  of  common  sense  ;  and 
sooner  or  later  the  study  of  him  will  needs  kill  off  all  the 
editors  that  run  in  discord  with  this  supreme  quality  of  his 
workmanship. 

The  present  generation  of  Shakespearians  are  rather  con¬ 
spicuously,  not  to  say  ostentatiously,  innocent  of  respect  for 
their  predecessors.  They  even  seem  to  measure  the  worth 
of  their  own  doings  by  their  self-complacent  ignoring  or  up¬ 
braiding  of  what  has  been  done  before.  Might  it  not  be 
well  for  them  to  bethink  themselves  now  and  then  what  sort 
of  a  lesson  their  contempt  of  the  past  is  likely  to  teach  the 
future?  Possibly  plain  sensible  people,  who  prefer  small 
perspicuities  to  big  obscurities,  soft-voiced  solidities  to  high- 
sounding  nihilities,  may  take  it  into  their  heads  that  wisdom 
was  not  born  with  the  present  generation,  and  will  not  die 
with  it.  After  all,  Rowe,  Pope,  Theobald,  Hanmer,  War- 
burton,  Johnson,  Capell,  and  others,  though  by  no  means 
infallible,  yet  were  not  fools  :  they  knew  several  things  ;  and 
their  minds  were  at  least  tolerably  clear  of  conceit  and  cant : 
I  suspect  they  understood  their  business  quite  as  well,  and 
laboured  in  it  quite  as  uprightly  and  fruitfully,  as  those  who 
now  insist  on  proceeding  as  if  nothing  had  ever  been  done  ; 
as  if  it  had  been  reserved  exclusively  for  them  to  understand 
and  appreciate  the  Poet.  In  this,  as  in  some  other  matters, 
to  “  stand  as  if  a  man  were  author  of  himself,  and  knew  no 
Other  kin,”  is  not  exactly  the  thing.  The  best  that  any  of 


PREFACE. 


XXV 


us  can  do  is  to  add  somewhat,  perhaps  a  very,  very  little, 
to  the  building  that  others  have  worked  upon  and  helped  to 
rear ;  and  if  we  are  to  begin  by  a  clean  sweeping  away  of 
what  others  have  done,  that  so  our  puny  architecture  may 
have  a  better  chance  of  being  seen,  is  it  not  possible  that  the 
sum  of  our  own  doings,  as  time  shall  foot  it  up,  will  prove  a 
minus  quantity? 

Certainly  changes  in  the  old  text  of  Shakespeare  ought 
not  to  be  made  without  strong  and  clear  reasons  :  and  after 
they  have  been  so  made,  stronger  and  clearer  reasons  may 
arise,  or  may  be  shown,  for  unmaking  them.  Very  well ;  be 
it  so.  But  such  reasons  are  not  to  be  nonsuited  by  unrea¬ 
sonable  explanations,  by  superfine  glozings,  and  rhetorical 
smokings.  The  cacoethes  emendandi  and  the  cacoethcs 
explanandi  are  alike  out  of  place,  and  to  be  avoided.  I 
have  already  quoted  the  phrase  “  absolute  necessity,”  now  so 
often  used  by  the  ultraists  of  textual  conservatism.  This 
phrase  seems  to  bind  the  thing  up  very  tightly  :  yet,  even 
with  those  who  urge  it  most  strongly,  it  is  found  to  have,  in 
effect,  no  firm  practical  meaning ;  at  least  not  a  whit  more 
than  the  phrase  “  strong  and  clear  reasons.”  To  illustrate 
what  I  mean  : 

Mr.  Furness,  in  his  King  Lear ,  iii.  6,  prints  “  This  rest 
might  yet  have  balm’d  thy  broken  sinews  ”  ;  thus  rejecting 
Theobald’s  reading,  “ broken  senses ,”  for  the  old  text:  and 
he  does  this  on  the  ground  that  “  the  change  is  not  abso¬ 
lutely  necessary.”  Yet,  in  ii.  4,  he  prints  “To  be. a  comrade 
of  the  wolf,  and  howl  necessity’s  sharp  pinch  !  ”  thus  substi¬ 
tuting  howl ,  from  Collier’s  second  folio,  for  owl,  the  old 
reading.  And  I  think  he  shows  strong  and  clear  reasons  for 
the  change.  But,  strictly  speaking,  I  can  see  no  absolute 
necessity  for  it :  some  tolerable  sense  can  be  made,  has  been 
made,  out  of  the  old  text.  Nay,  more ;  the  change,  in  this 
case,  as  it  seems  to  me,  does  not  come  so  near  being  abso- 


XXVI 


PREFACE. 


lutely  necessary  as  in  the  case  of  Theobald’s  senses.  I  must 
needs  think  that  owl  yields,  of  the  two,  a  better  and  more 
fitting  sense  in  the  one  place  than  sinews  does  in  the  other. 
Nevertheless,  in  the  instance  of  howl ,  Mr.  Furness  seems 
to  me  to  make  out  a  clear  case ;  to  justify  the  change  tri¬ 
umphantly  ;  this  too  without  any  approach  to  overstrained 
refinement ;  insomuch  that  I  should  henceforth  never  think 
of  printing  the  passage  otherwise  than  as  he  prints  it.  So, 
be  it  that  absolute  necessity  is  the  true  rule,  have  we  not 
here  a  pretty  good  instance  of  that  rule  being  “  more  hon¬ 
our’d  in  the  breach  than  the  observance  ”? 

And  I  think  the  same  argument  will  hold  even  more 
strongly  touching  another  reading  which  he  adopts  from  the 
same  source.  It  is  in  i.  i,  where  he  prints  “  It  is  no  vicious 
blot,  nor  other  foulness,”  instead  of  the  old  reading,  “no 
vicious  blot,  murther ,  or  foulness.”  Here  the  need  of  the 
change,  to  my  thinking,  is  not  so  exigent  nor  so  evident  as 
in  either  of  the  former  cases,  especially  the  first :  a  good 
deal,  I  think,  can  here  be  said  in  defence  of  the  old  reading : 
at  all  events,  I  can  nowise  understand  how  the  absolute 
necessity  that  rules  out  senses  can  consistently  rule-in  howl 
and  nor  other.  But  Mr.  Furness,  with  all  his  austere  and, 
as  I  must  think,  rather  overstrained  conservatism,  so  com¬ 
mands  my  respect,  that  I  accept  his  judgment  in  both  the 
latter  cases,  though  dissenting  from  him  altogether  in  the 
first ;  herein  following,  as  I  take  it,  the  absolute  necessity 
which  he  practises,  and  not  the  one  which  he  preaches. 
And  indeed  so  many  men  preach  better  than  they  practise, 
that  it  is  decidedly  refreshing  to  meet,  now  and  then,  with 
one  who  reverses  this  order,  and  makes  his  practice  come 
out  ahead. 

Of  course  this  point  might  easily  be  illustrated  at  almost 
any  length.  For  the  old  text  has  hundreds  of  cases  substan¬ 
tially  parallel  with  those  I  have  cited  ;  cases  where,  in  my  judg- 


PREFACE. 


XXV11 


ment,  there  are  strong  and  clear  reasons  for  textual  changes 
made  or  proposed  by  former  Shakespearians,  but  where  the 
new  school,  with  their  canon  of  “  absolute  necessity,”  hold 
on  to  stark  corruptions,  and  then  make  up  for  their  textual 
strictness  with  the  largest  exegetical  license.  Yet  I  have 
never  caught  any  of  these  bigots  (so  I  must  term  them)  of 
the  old  letter  finding  fault  when  we,  of  a  somewhat  more 
liberal  bent,  have  adopted  any  corrections  which  they  have 
themselves  proposed.  Here,  as,  to  be  sure,  is  very  natural, 
their  “  absolute  necessity  ”  smiles  itself  into  an  aspect  practi¬ 
cable  enough. 

For,  in  truth,  several  of  them  seem  equally  intent  on  find¬ 
ing  reasons  for  condemning  corrections  that  others  have 
made,  and  for  proposing  or  approving  new  corrections  ;  and 
their  wrong-headed,  perhaps  I  should  say  pig-headed,  inge¬ 
nuity  in  both  parts  of  the  business  is  sometimes  ludicrous, 
sometimes  otherwise.  So,  for  instance,  one  of  them  has 
lately  approved,  and  another  adopted,  a  new  reading  in  The 
Tempest ,  i.  2  :  “  Urchins  shall  forth  at  vast  of  night,  that  they 
may  work  all  exercise  on  thee”;  where  both  the  old  and 
the  common  reading  is,  “Urchins  shall,  for  that  vast  of  night 
that  they  may  work,  all  exercise  on  thee.”  Here,  of  course, 

*  for  gives  the  sense  of  duration,  or  prolonged  action ;  which 
is  just  what  the  occasion  requires.  For  it  is  well  known  that 
urchins  were  wont  to  go  forth,  and  work,  or  play,  during  the 
vast  of  night,  anyhow ;  this  was  their  special  right  or  privi¬ 
lege  ;  and  Prospero  means  that,  during  that  time,  he  will 
have  them  exercise  their  talents  on  Caliban.  In  my  poor 
opinion,  therefore,  both  the  approver  and  the  adopter  of  the 
forecited  change  have  thereby,  so  far  as  one  instance  can 
tell  against  them,  earned  an  exclusion,  or  a  dismissal,  from 
the  seat  of  judgment  in  questions  of  that  sort.  However, 
when  any  of  these  gentlemen  offer  us,  as  they  sometimes  do, 
corrections  that  can  show  strong  and  clear  reasons,  I,  for 


XXV111 


PREFACE. 


one,  shall  be  happy  to  prefer  their  practice  also  to  their 
preaching ;  and  if  they  see  fit  to  frown  their  preaching 
upon  me,  I  have  but  to  laugh  back  their  own  practice  upon 
them  :  so,  if  they  can  stand  it,  I  can. 

But  there  is  one  thing  which  I  feel  bound  to  set  my  face 
against,  however  insignificant  that  setting  may  be.  It  is 
this.  Of  course  there  are  a  great  many  plain  cases  of  textual 
corruption,  where,  notwithstanding,  a  full  and  perfect  cer¬ 
tainty  as  to  the  right  correction  is  not  to  be  attained.  These 
often  try  an  editor’s  labour  and  judgment  and  patience  to 
the  uttermost.  But  it  is  an  editor’s  business,  in  such  cases, 
to  sift  and  weigh  the  whole  matter  with  all  possible  care, 
to  make  up  his  mind,  and  do  the  best  he  can.  This  is  a 
tedious  and  painful,  as  also,  in  most  cases,  a  thankless  pro¬ 
cess.  So  a  custom  has  lately  been  started,  for  editors,  when 
on  this  score  any  “  doubts  or  scruples  tease  the  brain,”  to 
shirk  the  whole  matter,  to  shift  off  the  burden  upon  others, 
and  to  dodge  all  responsibility  and  all  hazard  of  a  wrong 
decision,  by  sticking  an  obelus  in  to  note  the  corruption ; 
thus  calling  the  reader’s  attention  to  his  need  of  help,  and 
yet  leaving  him  utterly  unhelped.  This  is  indeed  “  most  tol¬ 
erable  and  not  to  be  endured.”  It  is,  in  effect,  equivalent 
to  telling  us  that  they  know  more  than  all  the  previous  edi¬ 
tors,  yet  do  not  know  enough  for  the  cause  they  have  under¬ 
taken,  and  so  have  no  way  but  to  adjourn  the  court. 

There  is  one  other  topic  upon  which  I  must  say  a  few  words. 
— -It  is  somewhat  in  question  how  far  the  spelling  and  the  ver¬ 
bal  forms  of  the  old  copies  ought  to  be  retained.  Mr.  White, 
following  the  folio,  prints  murther  for  murder ,  fadom  for 
fathom ,  and  in  some  cases,  if  I  rightly  remember,  moder  for 
mother .  Now  there  seems  to  me  just  as  much  reason  for 
keeping  the  two  latter  archaisms  as  for  keeping  the  first ; 
that  is  to  say,  none  at  all.  Herein,  however,  Mr.  White  is  at 
least  consistent ;  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  some 


PREFACE. 


XXIX 


other  recent  editing ;  though  I  admit  that  in  this  instance 
consistency  is  not  a  jewel.  And  Mr.  Furness,  in  the  Preface 
to  his  King  Lear ,  announces  that  hereafter  he  shall  adhere 
to  the  old  form,  or  old  spelling,  of  then  for  than ,  as  also  of 
the  antique  concessive  and  for  an.  In  an  edition  like  his 
designed  chiefly  for  students  and  scholars,  there  may  be  some 
reason  for  this  which  does  not  hold  in  the  case  of  editions 
looking  to  general  use ;  yet  even  that  appears  to  me  some¬ 
what  more  than  doubtful.  Mr.  Furness  urges  that  Spenser 
always  uses  then  for  than ,  and  that  none  of  his  modern  edi¬ 
tors  think  of  substituting  the  latter.  But  Spenser  manifestly 
took  pains  to  give  his  language  a  special  air  or  smack  of  an¬ 
tiquity,  and  so  made  it  more  archaic  than  the  general  usage 
of  his  time.  Moreover,  Spenser  is  now  very  little  read,  if  at 
all,  save  by  scholars  and  students ;  and,  if  I  were  to  edit  any 
portion  of  him  for  common  use,  I  should  make  no  scruple  of 
printing  than ,  except  in  cases  where  then  might  need  to  be 
kept  for  the  rhyme. 

Again :  All  students  of  Shakespeare  know  that  the  folio 
has  many  instances  of  God  buy  you ,  the  old  colloquial 
abridgment  of  God  be  with  you ,  which  has  been  still  further 
shortened  into  our  Good  bye.  Probably,  in  the  Poet’s  time, 
the  phrase  was  sounded  God  bwy  you.  FI  ere  I  see  no  other, 
or  no  better,  way  to  keep  both  sense  and  sound,  and  rhythm 
also,  than  by  printing  God  b ’  wP  you  ;  and  so  in  this  edition 
I  always  print,  or  mean  to  print.  Would  Mr.  Furness,  in 
this  instance  also,  retain  the  old  form  or  spelling  buy  ?  The 
phrase,  I  believe,  does  not  occur  in  King  Lear ,  so  that  he 
had  no  occasion  there  for  making  any  sign  of  his  thought  on 
the  subject.  The  phrase  occurs  twice  in  Hamlet ,  first  in  ii. 
i,  and  again  in  ii.  2  ;  and  there  he  prints  “  God  be  wi’  you  ” 
and  “God  be  wi’  ye”;  but  on  some  points  his  views  have 
changed  since  his  superb  edition  of  that  play  was  issued. 
Whatever  his  purpose  may  be,  I  cannot  but  think  there  is 


XXX 


PREFACE. 


quite  as  good  reason  for  adhering  strictly  to  the  old  letter  in 
this  instance  as  in  that  of  then  or  of  and.  And  the  case  is 
substantially  the  same  in  reference  to  a  great  many  other 
words  :  in  fact,  I  do  not  see  how  this  principle  of  retention 
can  consistently  stop,  till  it  shall  have  restored  the  old  spell¬ 
ing  altogether. 

My  own  practice  in  this  matter  is,  wherever  any  thing  either 
of  sense,  or  of  rhythm,  or  of  metre,  or  of  rhyme,  is  involved, 
to  retain  the  old  forms  or  old  spelling.  For  instance,  the 
folio  has  eyne  for  eyes,  and  rhyming  with  mine ;  also  denay 
for  denial,  and  rhyming  with  say :  it  also  has  throughly  for 
thoroughly,  and  thorough  for  through.  Of  course  I  should 
never  think,  probably  no  editor  would  think,  of  disturbing 
these  archaisms,  or  such  as  these.  Even  when,  as  is  often 
the  case,  there  is  no  reason  of  metre  or  of  rhyme  for  keep¬ 
ing  them,  they  are  essential  items  in  the  Poet’s  rhythm ;  for 
good  prose  has  a  rhythm  of  its  own  as  well  as  verse.  Now 
Shakespeare,  especially  in  his  verse,  was  evidently  very  par¬ 
ticular  and  exact  in  the  care  of  his  rhythm  and  metre,  and 
therefore  of  his  syllables.  The  folio  has  almost  numberless 
minute  proofs  and  indications  of  this ;  and  here,  of  course, 
the  smaller  the  note,  the  more  significance  it  bears  as  regards 
the  Poet’s  habit  and  purpose.  Perhaps  there  is  no  one 
point  wherein  this  is  oftener  shown  than  in  his  very  frequent 
elision  of  the  article  the,  so  as  to  make  it  coalesce  with  the 
preceding  word  into  one  syllable.  So,  especially  in  his  later 
plays,  there  is  almost  no  end  to  such  elisions  as  by  th', 
do  th' , for  th' ,  from  th ',  on  tti ,  to  th' ,  &c. ;  and  the  folio  has 
many  instances  of  the  double  elision  wi '  th '  for  with  the. 
Now  I  hold,  and  have  long  held  it  important  that,  as  far  as 
practicable,  these  little  things  be  carefully  preserved,  not  only 
because  they  are  essential  parts  of  the  Poet’s  verbal  modu¬ 
lation,  but  also  as  significant  notes  or  registers  of  his  scrupu¬ 
lous  and  delicate  attention  to  this  element  of  his  workman- 


PREFACE. 


XXXI 


* 

ship.  Yet  the  whole  thing  is  totally  ignored  in  ail  the  recent 
editions  that  I  am  conversant  with ;  all,  with  the  one  excep¬ 
tion  of  Mr.  Furness’s  latest  volume,  his  King  Lear ,  where  it 
is  carefully  attended  to.  And  right  glad  am  I  that  it  is  ;  for, 
as  I  must  think,  it  ought  never  to  have  been  neglected. 

But,  in  certain  other  points,  —  points  where  nothing  of 
rhyme  or  metre  or  rhythm  or  sense  is  concerned,  —  I  have 
pursued,  and  shall  pursue,  a  somewhat  different  course.  —  It 
is  well  known  to  Shakespearians  that  the  old  text  has  some 
twelve  or  fifteen,  perhaps  more,  instances  of  it  used  posses¬ 
sively,  or  where  we  should  use  its,  the  latter  not  being  a  cur¬ 
rent  form  in  the  Poet’s  time,  though  then  just  creeping  into 
use.  And  so  the  English  Bible,  as  originally  printed  in  1611, 
has  not  a  single  instance  of  its  :  it  has,  however,  one  or  two, 
perhaps  more,  instances  of  it  used  in  the  same  way.  In 
these  cases,  all  modern  editions,  so  far  as  I  know,  print  its, 
and  are,  I  hold,  unquestionably  right  in  doing  so.  It  is  true, 
Shakespeare’s  old  text  has  repeated  instances  of  its,  and 
these  are  more  frequent  in  the  later  plays  than  in  the  earlier. 
And  in  most  of  these  cases  the  folio  prints  it  with  an  apos¬ 
trophe,  it's ;  though  in  two  or  three  places,  if  not  more,  we 
there  have  it  printed  without  the  apostrophe. 

In  all  these  cases,  whether  of  it  or  its  or  its,  I  make  no 
scruple  whatever  of  printing  simply  its  ;  though  I  sometimes 
call  attention  to  the  old  usage  in  my  Critical  Notes.  For,  in 
truth,  I  can  perceive  no  sort  of  sense  or  reason  in  retaining 
the  possessive  it  in  Shakespeare’s  text,  or,  at  all  events,  in 
any  presentation  of  it  designed  for  common  use.  Yet  we 
have  some  recent  editing  apparently  taking  no  little  credit 
to  itself  for  keeping  up  and  propagating  this  unmeaning  and 
worthless  bit  of  archaic  usage ;  whereas  the  Poet  himself 
was  evidently  impatient  of  it,  as  he  shook  himself  more  and 
more  free  from  it,  the  riper  he  grew.  Of  course  the  same 
recent  editing  insists  punctually  on  keeping  the  apostro- 


XXX11 


PREFACE. 


phized  form,  it's,  wherever  the  folio  prints  it  so.  Surely 
there  is  no  more  reason  for  retaining  the  apostrophe  here, 
than  there  is  for  omitting  it  in  the  numberless  cases  where 
the  folio  omits  it;  as  in  “like  my  brothers  fault,”  and 
“against  my  brothers  life.”  For  all  who  have  so  much  as 
looked  into  that  volume  must  know  that  genitives  and  plurals 
are  there  commonly  printed  just  alike.  But,  indeed,  the 
retention  of  these  archaisms  seems  to  me  no  better  than 
sheer  idolatry  or  dotage  of  the  old  letter ;  all  the  arguments 
but  those  of  pedantry  or  affectation  drawing  clean  away  from 
it.  That  an  editor  who  stands  rigidly  on  these  points  should 
nevertheless  quite  overlook  other  things  of  real  weight,  like 
those  I  pointed  out  a  little  before,  may  seem  strange  to 
some  :  but  I  suspect  it  is  all  in  course ;  for  they  who  ride 
hobbies  are  apt  to  lose  sight  of  every  thing  but  the  particular 
hobby  they  happen  to  be  riding. 

And  now  a  word  as  to  the  ordering  of  the  plays  in  this 
edition.  The  folio  has  them  arranged  in  three  distinct  series, 
severally  entitled  Comedies,  Histories,  and  Tragedies.  The 
plays  of  the  first  and  third  series  are  there  arranged  seem¬ 
ingly  at  haphazard,  and  without  any  regard  to  the  order  of 
time  in  which  they  were  written ;  those  of  the  second  or 
historic  series,  simply  according  to  the  chronological  order 
of  the  persons  and  events  represented  in  them ;  the  three 
that  were  no  doubt  written  first  being  thus  placed  after  sev¬ 
eral  that  were  of  later  composition.  In  this  edition,  the 
three  series  of  the  folio  are  kept  distinct;  but  the  several 
plays  of  each  series  are  meant  to  be  arranged,  as  nearly  as 
may  be,  according  to  the  chronological  order  of  the  writing. 
This  is  done  merely  because  such  appears  to  be  the  most 
natural  and  fitting  principle  of  arrangement,  and  not  that 
the  Poet  may  be  read  or  studied  “  historically  ” ;  a  matter 
which  is  made  a  good  deal  of  by  some,  but  which,  as  it 


PREFACE.  xxxiii 

seems  to  me,  is  really  of  no  practical  consequence  whatever. 
Nor  is  it  claimed  that  the  actual  order  of  the  writing  is  pre¬ 
cisely  followed  in  every  particular :  in  fact,  this  order  has  not 
yet  been  fully  settled,  and  probably  never  will  be ;  though, 
to  be  sure,  something  considerable  has  been  done  towards 
such  settlement  within  the  last  few  years. 

I  must  not  let  this  Preface  go  without  expressing  a  very 
deep  and  lively  sense  of  my  obligations  to  Mr.  Joseph  Crosby. 
The  work  of  preparing  this  edition  was  set  about  in  good 
earnest  on  the  23d  of  April,  1873,  and  has  been  the  main 
burden  of  my  thought  and  care  ever  since.  From  that  time 
to  the  present,  a  frequent  and  steady  correspondence,  of  the 
greatest  use  and  interest  to  me,  has  been  passing  between 
Mr.  Crosby  and  myself.  The  results  thereof  are  in  some 
measure  made  apparent  in  my  Critical  Notes,  and  still  more 
in  the  foot-notes  ;  but,  after  all,  a  very  large,  if  not  the  larger, 
portion  of  the  benefit  I  have  received  is  not  capable  of  being 
put  in  definite  form,  and  having  credit  given  for  it  in  detail. 
Indeed,  I  owe  him  much,  —  much  in  the  shape  of  distinctly- 
usable  matter,  but  more  in  the  way  of  judicious  counsel, 
kindly  encouragement,  and  friendship  steadfast  and  true. 


Cambridge,  August  2, 1880. 


4 


LIFE 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE 


SHAKESPEARE  *  is,  by  general  suffrage,  the  greatest 
name  in  literature.  There  can  be  no  extravagance  in 
saying,  that  to  all  who  speak  the  English  language  his  genius 
has  made  the  world  better  worth  living  in,  and  life  a  nobler 
and  diviner  thing.  And  even  among  those  who  do  not 
“speak  the  tongue  that  Shakespeare  spake,”  large  numbers 
are  studying  the  English  language  mainly  for  the  purpose 
of  being  at  home  with  him.  How  he  came  to  be  what  he 
was,  and  to  do  what  he  did,  are  questions  that  can  never 
cease  to  be  interesting,  wherever  his  works  are  known,  and 
men’s  powers  of  thought  in  any  fair  measure  developed. 
But  Providence  has  left  a  veil,  or  rather  a  cloud,  about  his 
history,  so  that  these  questions  are  not  likely  to  be  satisfac¬ 
torily  answered. 

The  first  formal  attempt  at  an  account  of  Shakespeare’s  life 


*  Much  discussion  has  been  had  in  our  time  as  to  the  right  way  of 
spelling  the  Poet’s  name.  The  few  autographs  of  his  that  are  extant  do 
not  enable  us  to  decide  positively  how  he  wrote  his  name ;  or  rather  they 
show  that  he  had  no  one  constant  way  of  writing  it.  But  the  Venus  and 
Adonis  and  the  Lucrece  were  unquestionably  published  by  his  authority, 
and  in  the  dedications  of  both  these  poems  the  name  is  printed  “  Shake¬ 
speare.”  The  same  holds  in  all  the  quarto  issues  of  his  plays,  where  the 
author’s  name  is  given,  with  the  one  exception  of  Love's  Labours  Lost ,  which 
has  it  “  Shakespere  ”  ;  as  it  also  holds  in  the  folio.  And  in  very  many  of 
these  cases  the  name  is  printed  with  a  hyphen,  “  Shake-speare,”  as  if  on 
purpose  that  there  might  be  no  mistake  about  it.  All  which,  surely,  is  or 
ought  to  be  decisive  as  to  how  the  Poet  willed  his  name  to  be  spelt  in 
print.  Inconstancy  in  the  spelling  of  names  was  very  common  in  his  time. 


2 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


was  made  by  Nicholas  Rowe,  and  the  result  thereof  pub¬ 
lished  in  1709,  ninety-three  years  after  the  Poet’s  death. 
Rowe’s  account  was  avowedly  made  up,  for  the  most  part, 
from  traditionary  materials  collected  by  Betterton  the  actor, 
who  made  a  visit  to  Stratford  expressly  for  that  purpose. 
Betterton  was  born  in  1635,  nineteen  years  after  the  death 
of  Shakespeare;  became  an  actor  before  1660,  retired  from 
the  stage  about  1700,  and  died  in  1710.  At  what  time  he 
visited  Stratford  is  not  known.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that 
Rowe  did  not  give  Betterton’s  authorities  for  the  particulars 
gathered  by  him.  It  is  certain,  however,  that  very  good 
sources-  of  information  were  accessible  in  his  time  :  Judith 
Quiney,  the  Poet’s  second  daughter,  lived  till  1662  ;  Lady 
Barnard,  his  granddaughter,  till  1670;  and  Sir  William 
Davenant,  who  in  his  youth  had  known  Shakespeare,  was 
manager  of  the  theatre  in  which  Betterton  acted. 

After  Rowe’s  account,  scarce  any  thing  was  added  till 
the  time  of  Malone,  who  by  a  learned  and  most  industrious 
searching  of  public  and  private  records  brought  to  light  a 
considerable  number  of  facts,  some  of  them  very  important, 
touching  the  Poet  and  his  family.  And  in  our  own  day  Mr. 
Collier  has  followed  up  the  inquiry  with  very  great  diligence, 
and  with  no  inconsiderable  success ;  though,  unfortunately, 
much  of  the  matter  supplied  by  him  has  been  discredited 
as  unauthentic,  by  those  from  whom  there  is  in  such  cases 
no  appeal.  Lastly,  Mr.  Halliwell  has  given  his  intelligent 
and  indefatigable  labours  to  the  same  task,  and  made  some 
valuable  additions  to  our  stock. 

The  lineage  of  William  Shakespeare,  on  the  paternal 
side,  has  not  been  traced  further  back  than  his  grandfather. 
The  name,  which  in  its  composition  smacks  of  brave  old 
knighthood  and  chivalry,  was  frequent  in  Warwickshire  from 
an  early  period. 

The  father  of  our  Poet  was  John  Shakespeare,  who  is 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


3 


found  living  at  Stratford-on-Avon  in  1552.  He  was  most 
likely  a  native  of  Snitterfield,  a  village  three  miles  from  Strat¬ 
ford  ;  as  we  find  a  Richard  Shakespeare  living  there  in  1550, 
and  occupying  a  house  and  land  owned  by  Robert  Arden, 
the  maternal  grandfather  of  our  Poet.  This  appears  from  a 
deed  executed  July  17,  1550,  in  which  Robert  Arden  con¬ 
veyed  certain  lands  and  tenements  in  Snitterfield,  described 
as  being  “now  in  the  tenure  of  one  Richard  Shakespeare,” 
to  be  held  in  trust  for  three  daughters  “  after  the  death  of 
Robert  and  Agnes  Arden.” 

An  entry  in  a  Court  Roll,  dated  April,  1552,  ascertains 
that  John  Shakespeare  was  living  in  Stratford  at  that  time. 
And  an  entry  in  the  Bailiff’s  Court,  dated  June,  1556,  describes 
him  as  “John  Shakespeare,  of  Stratford  in  the  county  of 
Warwick, glover.-'  In  1558,  the  same  John  Shakespeare,  and 
four  others,  one  of  whom  was  Francis  Burbage,  then  at  the 
head  of  the  corporation,  were  fined  four  pence  each  “for 
not  keeping  their  gutters  clean.” 

There  is  ample  proof  that  at  this  period  John  Shake¬ 
speare’s  affairs  were  in  a  thriving  condition.  In  October, 
1556,  he  became  the  owner  of  two  copyhold  estates,  one  of 
them  consisting  of  a  house  with  a  garden  and  a  croft  at¬ 
tached  to  it,  the  other  of  a  house  and  garden.  As  these 
were  estates  of  inheritance,  the  tenure  was  nearly  equal  to 
freehold ;  so  that  he  must  have  been  pretty  well-to-do  in  the 
world  at  the  time.  For  several  years  after,  his  circum¬ 
stances  continued  to  improve.  Before  1558,  he  became  the 
owner,  by  marriage,  of  a  farm  at  Wilmecote,  consisting  of 
fifty-six  acres,  besides  two  houses  and  two  gardens ;  more¬ 
over,  he  held,  in  right  of  his  wife,  a  considerable  share  in  a 
property  at  Snitterfield.  Another  addition  to  his  property 
was  made  in  1575,  —  a  freehold  estate,  bought  for  the  sum 
of  £40,  and  described  as  consisting  of  “two  houses,  two 
gardens,  and  two  orchards,  with  their  appurtenances.” 


4 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


Several  other  particulars  have  been  discovered,  which  go 
to  ascertain  his  wealth  as  compared  with  that  of  other 
Stratford  citizens.  In  1564,  the  year  of  the  Poet’s  birth, 
a  malignant  fever,  called  the  plague,  invaded  Stratford.  Its 
hungriest  period  was  from  the  last  of  June  to  the  last  of 
December,  during  which  time  it  swept  off  two  hundred  and 
thirty-eight  persons  out  of  a  population  of  about  fourteen 
hundred.  None  of  the  Shakespeare  family  are  found  among 
its  victims.  Large  draughts  were  made  upon  the  charities 
of  the  town  on  account  of  this  frightful  visitation.  In 
August,  the  citizens  held  a  meeting  in  the  open  air,  from 
fear  of  infection,  and  various  sums  were  contributed  for  the 
relief  of  the  poor.  The  High-Bailiff  gave  3  s.  4  d.y  the 
head-alderman  2  s.  8ff. ;  John  Shakespeare,  being  then  only 
a  burgess,  gave  1 2  d. ;  and  in  the  list  of  burgesses  there 
were  but  two  who  gave  more.  Other  donations  were  made 
for  the  same  cause,  he  bearing  a  proportionable  share  in 
them. 

We  have  seen  that  in  June,  1556,  John  Shakespeare  was 
termed  a  glover.  In  November  of  the  same  year  he  is 
found  bringing  an  action  against  one  of  his  neighbours  for 
unjustly  detaining  a  quantity  of  barley ;  which  naturally 
infers  him  to  have  been  more  or  less  engaged  in  agricul¬ 
tural  pursuits.  It  appears  that  at  a  later  period  agriculture 
was  his  main  pursuit,  if  not  his  only  one ;  for  the  town 
records  show  that  in  1564  he  was  paid  three  shillings  for  a 
piece  of  timber;  and  we  find  him  described  in  1575  as  a 
“  yeoman.”  Rowe  gives  a  tradition  of  his  having  been  “  a 
considerable  dealer  in  wool.”  It  is  nowise  unlikely  that 
such  may  have  been  the  case.  The  modern  divisions  of 
labour  and  trade  were  then  little  known  and  less  regarded ; 
several  kinds  of  business  being  often  carried  on  together, 
which  are  now  kept  distinct ;  and  we  have  special  proof 
that  gloves  and  wool  were  apt  to  be  united  as  articles  of 
trade. 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


5 


I  must  next  trace,  briefly,  the  career  of  John  Shakespeare 
as  a  public  officer  in  the  Stratford  corporation.  After  hold¬ 
ing  several  minor  offices,  he  was  in  1558,  and  again  in  1559, 
chosen  one  of  the  four  constables.  In  1561  he  was  a  sec- 
ond  time  made  one  of  the  four  affeerors,  whose  duty  it  was 
to  determine  the  fines  for  such  offences  as  had  no  penalties 
prescribed  by  statute.  The  same  year,  1561,  he  was  chosen 
one  of  the  chamberlains  of  the  borough,  a  very  responsible 
office,  which  he  held  two  years.  Advancing  steadily  in  the 
public  confidence,  he  became  an  alderman  in  1565  ;  and  in 
1568  was  elected  Bailiff,  the  highest  honour  the  corporation 
could  bestow.  He  held  this  office  a  year.  The  series  of 
local  honours  conferred  upon  him  ended  with  his  being 
chosen  head-alderman  in  1571;  which  office  also  he  held 
a  year.  The  rule  being  “once  an  alderman  always  an 
alderman,”  unless  positive  action  were  taken  to  the  con¬ 
trary,  he  retained  that  office  till  1586,  when,  for  persevering 
non-attendance  at  the  meetings,  he  was  deprived  of  his 
gown. 

After  all  these  marks  of  public  consequence,  the  reader 
may  be  surprised  to  learn  that  John  Shakespeare,  the  father 
of  the  world’s  greatest  thinker  and  greatest  poet,  could  not 
write  his  name  !  Such  was  undoubtedly  the  fact ;  and  I 
take  pleasure  in  noting  it,  as  showing,  what  is  too  apt  to  be 
forgotten  in  these  bookish  days,  that  men  may  know  several 
things,  and  may  have  witty  children,  without  being  initiated 
in  the  mysteries  of  pen  and  ink.  In  the  borough  records 
for  1565  is  an  order  signed  by  nineteen  aldermen  and 
burgesses,  calling  upon  John  Wheler  to  undertake  the  office 
of  Bailiff.  Of  these  signers  thirteen  are  markmen,  and 
among  them  are  the  names  of  George  Whately,  then  Bailiff, 
Roger  Sadler,  head-alderman,  and  John  Shakespeare.  So 
that  there  was  nothing  remarkable  in  his  not  being  able  to 
wield  a  pen.  As  Bailiff  of  Stratford,  he  was  ex  officio  a 


6 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


justice  of  the  peace ;  and  two  warrants  are  extant,  granted 
by  him  in  December,  1568,  for  the  arrest  of  John  Ball  and 
Richard  Walcar  on  account  of  debts  ;  both  of  them  bearing 
witness  that  “  he  had  a  mark  to  himself,  like  an  honest, 
plain-dealing  man.”  Several  other  cases  in  point  are  met 
with  at  later  periods ;  some  of  which  show  that  his  wife 
stood  on  the  same  footing  with  him  in  this  respect.  In 
October,  1579,  John  and  Mary  Shakespeare  executed  a 
deed  and  bond  for  the  transfer  of  their  interest  in  certain 
property;  both  of  which  are  subscribed  with  their  several 
marks,  and  sealed  with  their  respective  seals. 

John  Shakespeare’s  good  fortune  seems  to  have  reached 
its  height  about  the  year  1575,  after  which  time  we  meet 
with  many  clear  tokens  of  his  decline.  It  is  not  improbable 
that  his  affairs  may  have  got  embarrassed  from  his  having 
too  many  irons  in  the  fire.  The  registry  of  the  Court  of 
Record,  from  1555  to  1595,  has  a  large  number  of  entries 
respecting  him,  which  show  him  to  have  been  engaged  in 
a  great  variety  of  transactions,  and  to  have  had  more  litiga¬ 
tion  on  his  hands  than  would  now  be  thought  either  credi¬ 
table  or  safe.  But,  notwithstanding  his  decline  of  fortune, 
we  have  proofs  as  late  as  1592  that  he  still  retained  the 
confidence  and  esteem  of  his  fellow-citizens.  From  that 
time  forward,  his  affairs  were  doubtless  taken  care  of  by 
one  who,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter,  was  much  interested 
not  to  let  them  suffer,  and  also  well  able  to  keep  them  in 
good  trim.  He  was  buried  September  8,  1601  ;  so  that, 
supposing  him  to  have  reached  his  majority  when  first  heard 
of  in  1552,  he  must  have  passed  the  age  of  threescore-and- 
ten. 

On  the  maternal  side,  our  Poet’s  lineage  was  of  a  higher 
rank,  and  may  be  traced  further  back.  His  mother  was 
Mary  Arden,  a  name  redolent  of  old  poetry  and  romance. 
The  family  of  Arden  was  among  the  most  ancient  in  War- 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


7 


wickshire.  Their  history,  as  given  by  Dugdale,  spreads 
over  six  centuries.  Sir  John  Arden  was  squire  of  the  body 
to  Henry  the  Seventh ;  and  he  had  a  nephew,  the  son  of 
a  younger  brother,  who  was  page  of  the  bedchamber  to 
the  same  monarch.  These  were  at  that  time  places  of 
considerable  service  and  responsibility ;  and  both  the  uncle 
and  the  nephew  were  liberally  rewarded  by  their  royal 
master.  By  conveyances  dated  in  December,  1519,  it  ap¬ 
pears  that  Robert  Arden  then  became  the  owner  of  houses 
and  land  in  Snitterfield.  Other  purchases  by  him  of  lands 
and  houses  are  recorded  from  time  to  time.  The  Poet’s 
maternal  grandfather,  also  named  Robert,  died  in  1556.  In 
his  will,  dated  November  24th,  and  proved  December  16th, 
of  that  year,  he  makes  special  bequests  to  his  “  youngest 
daughter  Mary,”  and  also  appoints  her  and  another  daugh¬ 
ter,  named  Alice,  “full  executors  of  this  my  last  will  and 
testament.”  On  the  whole,  it  is  evident  enough  that  he 
was  a  man  of  good  landed  estate.  Both  he  and  John 
Shakespeare  appear  to  have  been  of  that  honest  and  sub¬ 
stantial  old  English  yeomanry  from  whose  better-than-royal 
stock  and  lineage  the  great  Poet  of  Nature  might  most  fitly 
fetch  his  life  and  being.  Of  the  Poet’s  grandmother  on 
either  side  we  know  nothing  whatever. 

Mary  Arden  was  the  youngest  of  seven  children,  all  of 
them  daughters.  The  exact  time  of  her  marriage  is  un¬ 
certain,  no  registry  of  it  having  been  found.  She  was  not 
married  at  the  date  of  her  father’s  will,  November,  1556. 
Joan,  the  first-born  of  John  and  Mary  Shakespeare,  was 
baptized  in  the  parish  church  of  Stratford-on-Avon,  Sep¬ 
tember  15,  1558.  We  have  seen  that  at  this  time  John 
Shakespeare  was  well  established  and  thriving  in  business, 
and  was  making  good  headway  in  the  confidence  of  the 
Stratfordians,  being  one  of  the  constables  of  the  borough. 
On  the  2d  of  December,  1562,  while  he  was  chamberlain, 


8 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


his  second  child  was  christened  Margaret.  On  the  26th  of 
April,  1564,  was  baptized  “William,  son  of  John  Shake¬ 
speare.”  The  day  of  his  birth  is  not  positively  known,  but 
the  general  custom  then  was  to  baptize  infants  at  three  days 
old,  and  the  custom  is  justly  presumed  to  have  been  fol¬ 
lowed  in  this  instance.  Accordingly  the  23d  of  April  is 
agreed  upon  everywhere  throughout  the  English-speaking 
world  as  the  Poet’s  birthday,  and  is  often  celebrated  as  such 
with  appropriate  festivities.  We  have  seen  that  throughout 
the  following  Summer  the  destroyer  was  busy  in  Stratford, 
making  fearful  spoil  of  her  sons  and  daughters  ;  but  it  spared 
the  babe  on  whose  life  hung  the  fate  of  English  literature. 
Other  children  were  added  to  the  family,  to  the  number  of 
eight,  several  of  them  dying  in  the  mean  time.  On  the  15th 
of  April,  1569,  their  third  daughter  was  christened  Joan,  the 
first  having  died  in  infancy.  On  the  28th  of  September, 
1571,  soon  after  the  father  became  head-alderman,  a  fourth 
daughter  was  baptized  Anne.  Hitherto  the  parish  register 
has  known  him  only  as  John  Shakespeare  :  in  this  case  it 
designates  him  “ Master  Shakespeare  ”  ;  and  in  all  cases 
after  this  the  name  is  written  with  that  significant  prefix. 
From  which  it  appears  that  by  holding  the  offices  of  High- 
Bailiff  and  Head- Alderman  he  had  gained  for  himself  the 
rank  and  title  of  Gentleman .  Such  rank  and  title,  however, 
so  gained,  were  personal  only,  and  were  not  transmissible  to 
his  children. 

Nothing  further  is  heard  of  Mrs.  Mary  Shakespeare  till 
her  death  in  1608.  On  the  9th  of  September,  that  year, 
the  parish  register  notes  the  burial  of  “  Mary  Shakespeare, 
widow,”  her  husband  having  died  seven  years  before.  That 
she  had  in  a  special  degree  the  confidence  and  affection  of 
her  father,  is  apparent  from  the  treatment  she  received  in 
his  will.  It  would  be  very  gratifying,  no  doubt,  perhaps 
very  instructive  also,  to  be  let  into  the  domestic  life  and 


Stratford-on-Avon. 


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UNIVERSITY  Of  ILLINQI 


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9 


character  of  the  Poet’s  mother.  That  both  her  nature  and 
her  discipline  entered  largely  into  his  composition,  and  had 
much  to  do  in  making  him  what  he  was,  can  hardly  be 
questioned.  Whatsoever  of  woman’s  beauty  and  sweetness 
and  wisdom  was  expressed  in  her  life  and  manners  could 
not  but  be  caught  and  repeated  in  his  susceptive  and  fertile 
mind.  He  must  have  grown  familiar  with  the  noblest  parts 
of  womanhood  somewhere ;  and  I  can  scarce  conceive  how 
he  should  have  learned  them  so  well,  but  that  the  light  and 
glory  of  them  beamed  upon  him  from  his  mother.  At  the 
time  of  her  death,  the  Poet  was  in  his  forty-fifth  year,  and 
had  already  produced  those  mighty  works  which  were  to  fill 
the  world  with  his  fame.  For  some  years  she  must  in  all 
likelihood  have  been  more  or  less  under  his  care  and  pro¬ 
tection  ;  as  her  age,  at  the  time  of  her  death,  could  not 
well  have  been  less  than  seventy. 

And  here  I  am  minded  to  notice  a  point  which,  it  seems 
to  me,  has  been  somewhat  overworked  within  the  last  few 
years.  Gervinus,  the  German  critic,  thinks  —  and  our  Mr. 
Grant  White  agrees  with  him  —  that  Shakespeare  acquired 
all  his  best  ideas  of  womanhood  after  he  went  to  London, 
and  conversed  with  the  ladies  of  the  city.  And  in  support 
of  this  notion  they  cite  the  fact  —  for  such  it  is  —  that  the 
women  of  his  later  plays  are  much  superior  to  those  of  his 
earlier  ones.  But  are  not  the  men  of  his  later  plays  quite 
as  much  superior  to  the  men  of  his  first  ?  Are  not  his  later 
plays  as  much  better  every  way ,  as  in  respect  of  the  female 
characters  ?  The  truth  seems  to  be,  that  Shakespeare  saw 
more  of  great  and  good  in  both  man  and  woman,  as  he  be¬ 
came  older  and  knew  them  better ;  for  he  was  full  of  intel¬ 
lectual  righteousness  in  this  as  in  other  things.  And  in  this 
matter  it  may  with  something  of  special  fitness  be  said  that 
a  man  finds  what  he  brings  with  him  the  faculty  for  finding. 
Shakespeare’s  mind  did  not  stay  on  the  surface  of  things. 


10 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


Probably  there  never  was  a  man  more  alive  to  the  presence 
of  humble,  modest  worth.  And  to  his  keen  yet  kindly  eye 
the  plain-thoughted  women  of  his  native  Stratford  may  well 
have  been  as  pure,  as  sweet,  as  lovely,  as  rich  in  all  the 
inward  graces  which  he  delighted  to  unfold  in  his  female 
characters,  as  any  thing  he  afterwards  found  among  the  fine 
ladies  of  the  metropolis ;  albeit  I  mean  no  disparagement  to 
these  latter ;  for  the  Poet  was  by  the  best  of  all  rights  a  gen¬ 
tleman,  and  the  ladies  who  pleased  him  in  London  doubt¬ 
less  had  sense  and  womanhood  enough  to  recognize  him  as 
such.  At  all  events,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the 
foundations  of  his  mind  were  laid  before  he  left  Stratford, 
and  that  the  gatherings  of  the  boy’s  eye  and  heart  were  the 
germs  of  the  man’s  thoughts. 

We  have  seen  our  Poet  springing  from  what  may  be  justly 
termed  the  best  vein  of  old  English  life.  At  the  time  of 
his  birth,  his  parents,  considering  the  purchases  previously 
made  by  the  father,  and  the  portion  inherited  by  the  mother, 
must  have  been  tolerably  well  off.  Malone,  reckoning  only 
the  bequests  specified  in  her  father’s  will,  estimated  Mary 
Shakespeare’s  fortune  to  be  not  less  than  £110.  Later  re¬ 
searches  have  brought  to  light  considerable  items  of  prop¬ 
erty  that  were  unknown  to  Malone.  Supposing  her  fortune 
to  have  been  as  good  as  ^150  then,  it  would  go  nearly  if 
not  quite  as  far  as  $5000  in  our  time.  So  that  the  Poet 
passed  his  boyhood  in  just  about  that  medium  state  between 
poverty  and  riches  which  is  accounted  most  favourable  to 
health  of  body  and  mind. 

At  the  time  when  his  father  became  High-Bailiff  the  Poet 
was  in  his  fifth  year ;  old  enough  to  understand  something 
of  what  would  be  said  and  done  in  the  home  of  an  English 
magistrate,  and  to  take  more  or  less  interest  in  the  duties, 
the  hospitalities,  and  perhaps  the  gayeties  incident  to  the 
headship  of  the  borough.  It  would  seem  that  the  Poet 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE.  II 

came  honestly  by  his  inclination  to  the  Drama.  During 
his  term  of  office,  John  Shakespeare  is  found  acting  in  his 
public  capacity  as  a  patron  of  the  stage.  The  chamberlain’s 
accounts  show  that  twice  in  the  course  of  that  year  money 
was  paid  to  different  companies  of  players ;  and  these  are 
the  earliest  notices  we  have  of  theatrical  performances  in 
that  ancient  town.  The  Bailiff  and  his  son  William  were 
most  likely  present  at  those  performances.  From  that  time 
forward,  all  through  the  Poet’s  youth,  probably  no  year 
passed  without  similar  exhibitions  at  Stratford.  In  1572, 
however,  an  act  was  passed  for  restraining  itinerant  players, 
whereby,  unless  they  could  show  a  patent  under  the  great 
seal,  they  became  liable  to  be  proceeded  against  as  vaga¬ 
bonds,  for  performing  without  a  license  from  the  local 
authorities.  Nevertheless,  the  chamberlain’s  accounts  show 
that  between  1569  and  1587  no  less  than  ten  distinct  com¬ 
panies  performed  at  Stratford  under  the  patronage  of  the 
corporation.  In  1587,  five  of  those  companies  are  found 
performing  there  ;  and  within  the  period  just  mentioned  the 
Earl  of  Leicester’s  men  are  noted  on  three  several  occasions 
as  receiving  money  from  the  town  treasury.  In  May,  1574, 
the  Earl  of  Leicester  obtained  a  patent  under  the  great  seal, 
enabling  his  players,  James  Burbage  and  four  others,  to  ex¬ 
ercise  their  art  in  any  part  of  the  kingdom  except  London. 
In  1587,  this  company  became  “The  Lord  Chamberlain’s 
servants  ” ;  and  we  shall  in  due  time  find  Shakespeare  be¬ 
longing  to  it.  James  Burbage  was  the  father  of  Richard 
Burbage,  probably  the  greatest  actor  of  that  age.  The  fam¬ 
ily  was  most  likely  from  Warwickshire,  and  perhaps  from 
Stratford,  as  we  have  already  met  with  the  name  in  that 
town.  Such  were  the  opportunities  our  embryo  Poet  had 
for  catching  the  first  rudiments  of  the  art  in  which  he  after¬ 
wards  displayed  such  mastery. 

The  forecited  accounts  have  an  entry,  in  1564,  of  two 


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LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


shillings  “paid  for  defacing  image  in  the  chapel.”  Even 
then  the  excesses  generated  out  of  the  Reformation  were 
invading  such  towns  as  Stratford,  and  waging  a  “  crusade 
against  the  harmless  monuments  of  the  ancient  belief;  no 
exercise  of  taste  being  suffered  to  interfere  with  what  was 
considered  a  religious  duty.”  In  these  exhibitions  of  stroll¬ 
ing  players  this  spirit  found  matter,  no  doubt,  more  deserv¬ 
ing  of  its  hostility.  While  the  Poet  was  yet  a  boy,  a  bitter 
war  of  books  and  pamphlets  had  begun  against  plays  and 
players ;  and  the  Stratford  records  inform  us  of  divers  at¬ 
tempts  to  suppress  them  in  that  town ;  but  the  issue  proves 
that  the  Stratfordians  were  not  easily  beaten  from  that  sort 
of  entertainment,  in  which  they  evidently  took  great  delight. 

We  have  seen  that  both  John  and  Mary  Shakespeare,  in¬ 
stead  of  writing  their  name,  were  so  far  disciples  of  Jack 
Cade  as  to  use  the  more  primitive  way  of  making  their  mark. 
It  nowise  follows  from  this  that  they  could  not  read ;  neither 
have  we  any  certain  evidence  that  they  could.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  there  was  no  good  reason  why  their  children  should 
not  be  able  to  say,  “  I  thank  God,  I  have  been  so  well  brought 
up,  that  I  can  write  my  name.”  A  Free-School  had  been 
founded  at  Stratford  by  Thomas  Jolyffe  in  the  reign  of  Ed¬ 
ward  the  Fourth.  In  1553,  King  Edward  the  Sixth  granted 
a  charter,  giving  it  a  legal  status,  with  legal  rights  and  duties, 
under  the  name  of  “The  King’s  New  School  of  Stratford- 
upon-Avon.”  What  particular  course  or  method  of  instruc¬ 
tion  was  used  there,  we  have  no  certain  knowledge ;  but  it 
was  probably  much  the  same  as  that  used  in  other  like 
schools  of  that  period ;  which  included  the  elementary 
branches  of  English,  and  also  the  rudiments  of  classical 
learning. 

Here  it  was,  no  doubt,  that  Shakespeare  acquired  the 
“  small  Latin  and  less  Greek  ”  which  Ben  Jonson  accords 
to  him.  What  was  “  small  ”  learning  in  the  eyes  of  such  a 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


13 


scholar  as  Jonson,  may  yet  have  been  something  handsome 
in  itself ;  and  his  remark  may  fairly  imply  that  the  Poet  had 
at  least  the  regular  free-school  education  of  the  time.  Hon¬ 
ourably  ambitious,  as  his  father  seems  to  have  been,  of  being 
somebody,  it  is  not  unlikely  that  he  may  have  prized  learning 
the  more  for  being  himself  without  it.  William  was  his  old¬ 
est  son ;  when  his  fortune  began  to  ebb,  the  Poet  was  in  his 
fourteenth  year,  and,  from  his  native  qualities  of  mind,  we 
cannot  doubt  that,  up  to  that  time  at  least,'  “  all  the  learnings 
that  his  town  could  make  him  the  receiver  of  he  took,  as  we 
do  air,  fast  as  ’twas  minister’d,  and  in  his  Spring  became  a 
harvest.” 

The  honest  but  credulous  gossip  Aubrey,  who  died  about 
1 700,  states,  on  the  authority  of  one  Beeston,  that  “  Shake¬ 
speare  understood  Latin  pretty  well,  for  he  had  been  in  his 
younger  years  a  schoolmaster  in  the  country.”  The  state¬ 
ment  may  fairly  challenge  some  respect,  inasmuch  as  per¬ 
sons  of  the  name  of  Beeston  were  connected  with  the  stage 
before  Shakespeare’s  death  and  long  afterwards.  And  it  is 
not  unlikely  that  the  Poet  may,  at  some  time,  have  been  an 
assistant  teacher  in  the  free-school  at  Stratford.  Nor  does 
this  conflict  with  Rowe’s  account,  which  states  that  John 
Shakespeare  kept  William  at  the  free-school  for  some  time ; 
but  that  straitness  of  circumstances  and  need  of  help  forced 
him  to  withdraw  his  son  from  the  school.  Though  writing 
from  tradition,  Rowe  was  evidently  careful,  and  what  he  says 
agrees  perfectly  with  what  later  researches  have  established 
respecting  John  Shakespeare’s  course  of  fortune.  He  also 
tells  us  that  the  Poet’s  father  “  could  give  him  no  better 
education  than  his  own  employment.”  John  Shakespeare, 
as  we  have  seen,  was  so  far  occupied  with  agriculture  as  to 
be  legally  styled  a  “  yeoman.”  Nor  am  I  sure  but  the  an¬ 
cient  functions  of  an  English  yeoman’s  oldest  son  might  be 
a  better  education  for  what  the  Poet  afterwards  accomplished 


14 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


than  was  to  be  had  at  any  free-school  or  university  in  Eng¬ 
land.  His  large  and  apt  use  of  legal  terms  and  phrases  has 
induced  many  good  Shakespearians .  learned  in  the  law  to 
believe  that  he  must  have  been  for  some  time  a  student  of 
that  noble  science.  It  is  indeed  difficult  to  understand  how 
he  could  have  spoken  as  he  often  does,  without  some  study 
in  the  law ;  but,  as  he  seems  thoroughly  at  home  in  the 
specialties  of  many  callings,  it  is  possible  his  knowledge  in 
the  law  may  have  grown  from  the  large  part  his  father  had, 
either  as  magistrate  or  litigant,  in  legal  transactions.  I  am 
sure  he  either  studied  divinity  or  else  had  a  strange  gift  of 
knowing  it  without  studying  it ;  and  his  ripeness  in  the  knowl¬ 
edge  of  disease  and  of  the  healing  art  is  a  standing  marvel 
to  the  medical  faculty. 

Knight  has  speculated  rather  copiously  and  romantically 
upon  the  idea  of  Shakespeare’s  having  been  a  spectator  of 
the  more-than-royal  pomp  and  pageantry  with  which  the 
Queen  was  entertained  by  Leicester  at  Kenilworth  in  1575. 
Stratford  was  fourteen  miles  from  Kenilworth,  and  the  Poet 
was  then  eleven  years  old.  That  his  ears  were  assailed  and 
his  imagination  excited  by  the  fame  of  that  magnificent  dis¬ 
play  cannot  be  doubted,  for  all  that  part  of  the  kingdom  was 
laid  under  contribution  to  supply  it,  and  was  resounding  with 
the  noise  of  it ;  but  his  father  was  not  of  a  rank  to  be  sum¬ 
moned  or  invited  thither,  nor  was  he  of  an  age  to  go  thither 
without  his  father.  Positive  evidence  either  way  on  the  point 
there  is  none ;  nor  can  I  discover  any  thing  in  his  plays  that 
would  fairly  infer  him  to  have  drunk  in  the  splendour  of  that 
occasion,  however  the  fierce  attractions  thereof  may  have 
kindled  a  mind  so  brimful  of  poetry  and  life.  The  whole 
matter  is  an  apt  theme  for  speculation,  and  for  nothing  else. 

The  gleanings  of  tradition  apart,  the  first  knowledge  that 
has  reached  us  of  the  Poet,  after  his  baptism,  has  reference 
to  his  marriage.  Rowe  tells  us  that  “  he  thought  fit  to  marry 


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Page  15 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE.  1 5 

while  he  was  very  young,”  and  that  “  his  wife  was  the  daugh¬ 
ter  of  one  Hathaway,  said  to  have  been  a  substantial  yeoman 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Stratford.”  These  statements  are 
borne  out  by  later  disclosures.  The  marriage  took  place  in 
the  Fall  of  1582,  when  the  Poet  was  in  his  nineteenth  year. 
On  the  28th  of  November,  that  year,  Fulk  Sandels  and  John 
Richardson  subscribed  a  bond  whereby  they  became  liable 
in  the  sum  of  ^40,  to  be  forfeited  to  the  Bishop  of  Worces¬ 
ter  in  case  there  should  be  found  any  lawful  impediment  to 
the  marriage  of  William  Shakespeare  and  Anne  Hathaway, 
of  Stratford ;  the  object  being  to  procure  such  a  dispensa¬ 
tion  from  the  Bishop  as  would  authorize  the  ceremony  after 
once  publishing  the  banns.  The  original  bond  is  preserved 
at  Worcester,  with  the  marks  and  seals  of  the  two  bondsmen 
affixed,  and  also  bearing  a  seal  with  the  initials  R.  H.,  as  if 
to  show  that  some  legal  representative  of  the  bride’s  father, 
Richard  Hathaway,  was  present  and  consenting  to  the  act. 
There  was  nothing  peculiar  in  the  transaction ;  the  bond  is 
just  the  same  as  was  usually  given  in  such  cases,  and  several 
others  like  it  are  to  be  seen  at  the  office  of  the  Worcester 
registry. 

The  parish  books  all  about  Stratford  and  Worcester  have 
been  ransacked,  but  no  record  of  the  marriage  has  been  dis¬ 
covered.  The  probability  is,  that  the  ceremony  took  place 
in  some  one  of  the  neighbouring  parishes  where  the  registers 
of  that  period  have  not  been  preserved. 

Anne  Hathaway  was  of  Shottery,  a  pleasant  village  situate 
within  an  easy  walk  of  Stratford,  and  belonging  to  the  same 
parish.  No  record  of  her  baptism  has  come  to  light,  but 
the  baptismal  register  of  Stratford  did  not  begin  till  1558. 
She  died  on  the  6th  of  August,  1623,  and  the  inscription  on 
her  monument  gives  her  age  as  sixty-seven  years.  Her  birth, 
therefore,  must  have  been  in  1556,  eight  years  before  that 
of  her  husband. 


1 6 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


From  certain  precepts,  dated  in  1566,  and  lately  found 
among  the  papers  of  the  Stratford  Court  of  Record,  it 
appears  that  the  relations  between  John  Shakespeare  and 
Richard  Hathaway  were  of  a  very  friendly  sort.  Hatha¬ 
way’s  will  was  made  September  1,  1581,  and  proved  July 
19,  1582,  which  shows  him  to  have  died  a  few  months 
before  the  marriage  of  his  daughter  Anne.  The  will  makes 
good  what  Rowe  says  of  his  being  “  a  substantial  yeoman.” 
He  appoints  Fulk  Sandals  one  of  the  supervisors  of  his 
will,  and  among  the  witnesses  to  it  is  the  name  of  William 
Gilbert,  then  curate  of  Stratford.  One  item  of  the  will  is, 
“  I  owe  unto  Thomas  Whittington,  my  shepherd,  ^4,  6  s. 
8*/.”  Whittington  died  in  1601;  and  in  his  will  he  gives 
and  bequeaths  “  unto  the  poor  people  of  Stratford  40  j-.  that 
is  in  the  hand  of  Anne  Shakespeare,  wife  unto  Mr.  William 
Shakespeare.”  The  careful  old  shepherd  had  doubtless 
placed  the  money  in  Anne  Shakespeare’s  hand  for  safe 
keeping,  she  being  a  person  in  whom  he  had  confidence. 

The  Poet’s  match  was  evidently  a  love-match  :  whether 
the  love  was  of  that  kind  which  forms  the  best  pledge  of 
wedded  happiness,  is  another  question.  It  is  not  unlikely 
that  the  marriage  may  have  been  preceded  by  the  ancient 
ceremony  of  troth-plight,  or  handfast ,  as  it  was  sometimes 
called ;  like  that  which  almost  takes  place  between  Florizel 
and  Perdita  in  The  Winter's  Tale ,  and  quite  takes  place  be¬ 
tween  Olivia  and  Sebastian  in  Twelfth  Night.  The  custom 
of  troth-plight  was  much  used  in  that  age,  and  for  a  long 
time  after.  In  some  places  it  had  the  force  and  effect  of  an 
actual  marriage.  Serious  evils,  however,  sometimes  grew  out 
of  it ;  and  the  Church  of  England  did  wisely,  no  doubt,  in 
uniting  the  troth-plight  and  the  ^marriage  in  one  and  the 
same  ceremony.  Whether  such  solemn  betrothment  had 
or  had  not  taken  place  between  William  Shakespeare  and 
Anne  Hathaway,  it  is  certain  from  the  parish  register  that 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


1 7 

they  had  a  daughter,  Susanna,  baptized  on  the  26th  of  May, 

15s3- 

Some  of  the  Poet’s  later  biographers  and  critics  have  sup¬ 
posed  he  was  not  happy  in  his  marriage.  Certain  passages 
of  his  plays,  especially  the  charming  dialogue  between  the 
Duke  and  the  disguised  Viola  in  Act  ii.,  scene  4,  of  Twelfth 
Night ,  have  been  cited  as  involving  some  reference  to  the 
Poet’s  own  case,  or  as  having  been  suggested  by  what  him¬ 
self  had  experienced  of  the  evils  resulting  from  the  wedlock 
of  persons  amisgraffed  in  respect  of  years.”  There  was 
never  any  thing  15ut  sheer  conjecture  for  this  notion.  Rowe 
mentions  nothing  of  the  kind;  and  we  may  be  sure  that; 
his  candour  would  not  have  spared  the  Poet,  had  tradition 
offered  him  any  such  matter.  As  for  the  passages  in  ques¬ 
tion,  I  know  no  reason  for  excepting  them  from  the  acknowl¬ 
edged  purity  and  disinterestedness  of  the  Poet’s  representa¬ 
tions  ;  where  nothing  is  more  remarkable,  or  more  generally 
commended,  than  his  singular  aloofness  of  self,  his  perfect 
freedom  from  every  thing  bordering  upon  egotism. 

Mr.  Grant  White  is  especially  hard  upon  the  Poet’s  wife, 
worrying  up  the  matter  against  her,  and  fairly  tormenting 
the  poor  woman’s  memory.  Now  the  facts  about  the  mar¬ 
riage  are  just  precisely  as  I  have  stated  them.  I  confess 
they  are  not  altogether  such  as  I  should  wish  them  to  have 
been ;  but  I  can  see  no  good  cause  why  prurient  inference 
or  speculation  should  busy  itself  in  going  behind  them.  If, 
however,  conjecture  must  be  at  work  on  those  facts,  surely 
it  had  better  run  in  the  direction  of  charity,  especially  as 
regards  the  weaker  vessel.  I  say  weaker  vessel,  because  in 
this  case  the  man  must  in  common  fairness  be  supposed  to 
have  had  the  advantage  at  least  as  much  in  natural  strength 
of  understanding  as  the  woman  had  in  years.  And  as 
Shakespeare  was,  by  all  accounts,  a  very  attractive  person, 
it  is  not  quite  clear  why  she  had  not  as  good  a  right  to  lose 


i8 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


her  heart  in  his  company  as  he  had  to  lose  his  in  hers. 
Probably  she  was  as  much  smitten  as  he  was ;  and  we  may 
well  remember  in  her  behalf,  that  love’s  “  favourite  seat  is 
feeble  woman’s  breast  ”  ;  especially  as  there  is  not  a  particle 
of  evidence  that  her  life  after  marriage  was  ever  otherwise 
than  clear  and  honourable.  And  indeed  it  will  do  no  hurt 
to  remember  in  reference  to  them  both,  how 

’Tis  affirm’d 

By  poets  skill’d  in  Nature’s  secret  ways, 

That  Love  will  not  submit  to  be  controll’d 
By  mastery. 


In  support  of  his  view,  Mr.  White  urges,  among  other 
things,  that  most  foul  and  wicked  fling  which  Leontes,  in 
his  mad  rapture  of  jealousy,  makes  against  his  wife,  in  Act  i., 
scene  2,  of  The  Winter's  Tale.  He  thinks  the  Poet  could 
not  have  written  that  and  other  strains  of  like  import,  but 
that  he  was  stung  into  doing  so  by  his  own  bitter  experience 
of  “  sorrow  and  shame”;  and  the  argument  is  that,  suppos¬ 
ing  him  to  have  had  such  a  root  of  bitterness  in  his  life,  he 
must  have  been  thinking  of  that  while  writing  those  pas¬ 
sages.  The  obvious  answer  is,  To  be  sure,  he  must  have 
been  thinking  of  that ;  but  then  he  must  have  known  that 
others  would  think  of  it  too ;  and  a  reasonable  delicacy  on 
his  part  would  have  counselled  the  withholding  of  any  thing 
that  he  was  conscious  might  be  applied  to  his  own  domestic 
affairs.  Sensible  men  do  not  write  in  their  public  pages 
such  things  as  would  be  almost  sure  to  breed  or  foster  scan¬ 
dal  about  their  own  names  or  their  own  homes.  The  man 
that  has  a  secret  cancer  on  his  person  will  naturally  be  the 
last  to  speak  of  cancers  in  reference  to  others.  I  can  hardly 
think  Shakespeare  was  so  wanting  in  a  sense  of  propriety  as 
to  have  written  the  passages  in  question,  but  that  he  knew 
no  man  could  say  he  was  exposing  the  foulness  of  his  own 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


19 


nest.  So  that  my  inferences  in  the  matter  are  just  the  re¬ 
verse  of  Mr.  White’s.  As  for  the  alleged  need  of  personal 
experience  in  order  to  the  writing  of  such  things,  why  should 
not  this  hold  just  as  well  in  regard,  for  instance,  to  Lady 
Macbeth’s  pangs  of  guilt?  Shakespeare’s  prime  character¬ 
istic  was,  that  he  knew  the  truth  of  Nature  in  all  such  things 
without  the  help  of  personal  experience. 

Mr.  White  presumes,  moreover,  that  Anne  Shakespeare 
was  a  coarse,  low,  vulgar  creature,  such  as,  the  fascination 
of  the  honeymoon  once  worn  off,  the  Poet  could  not  choose 
but  loathe  and  detest ;  and  that  his  betaking  himself  to  Lon¬ 
don  was  partly  to  escape  from  her  hated  society.  This, 
too,  is  all  sheer  conjecture,  and  rather  lame  at  that.  That 
Shakespeare  was  more  or  less  separated  from  his  wife  for  a 
number  of  years,  cannot  indeed  be  questioned ;  but  that  he 
ever  found  or  ever  sought  relief  or  comfort  in  such  separa¬ 
tion,  is  what  we  have  no  warrant  for  believing.  It  was 
simply  forced  upon  him  by  the  necessities  of  his  condition. 
The  darling  object  of  his  London  life  evidently  was,  that 
he  might  return  to  his  native  town,  with  a  handsome  com¬ 
petence,  and  dwell  in  the  bosom  of  his  family ;  and  the 
yearly  visits,  which  tradition  reports  him  to  have  made  to 
Stratford,  look  like  any  thing  but  a  wish  to  forget  them  or 
be  forgotten  by  them.  From  what  is  known  of  his  sub¬ 
sequent  life,  it  is  certain  that  he  had,  in  large  measure,  that 
honourable  ambition,  so  natural  to  an  English  gentleman, 
of  being  the  founder  of  a  family ;  and  as  soon  as  he  had 
reached  the  hope  of  doing  so,  he  retired  to  his  old  home, 
and  there  set  up  his  rest,  as  if  his  best  sunshine  of  life  still 
waited  on  the  presence  of  her  from  whose  society  he  is 
alleged  to  have  fled  away  in  disappointment  and  disgust. 

On  the  2d  of  February,  1585,  two  more  children,  twins, 
were  christened  in  the  parish  church  as  “  Hamnet  and  Ju¬ 
dith,  son  and  daughter  to  William  Shakespeare.”  We  hear 


20 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


of  no  more  children  being  added  to  the  family.  I  must 
here  so  far  anticipate  as  to  observe,  that  the  son  Hamnet 
was  buried  in  August,  1596,  being  then  in  his  twelfth  year. 
This  is  the  first  severe  home-stroke  known  to  have  lighted 
on  the  Poet. 

Tradition  has  been  busy  with  the  probable  causes  of 
Shakespeare’s  going  upon  the  stage.  Several  causes  have 
been  assigned ;  such  as,  first,  a  natural  inclination  to  poetry 
and  acting ;  second,  a  deer-stealing  frolic,  which  resulted  in 
making  Stratford  too  hot  for  him ;  third,  the  pecuniary  em¬ 
barrassments  of  his  father.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  all  these 
causes,  and  perhaps  others,  may  have  concurred  in  prompt¬ 
ing  the  step. 

For  the  first,  we  have  the  testimony  of  Aubrey,  who  was 
at  Stratford  probably  about  the  year  1680.  He  was  an  in¬ 
veterate  hunter  after  anecdotes,  and  seems  to  have  caught 
up,  without  sifting,  whatever  quaint  or  curious  matter  came 
in  his  way.  So  that  no  great  reliance  can  attach  to  what  he 
says,  unless  it  is  sustained  by  other  authority.  But  in  this 
case  his  words  sound  like  truth,  and  are  supported  by  all  the 
likelihoods  that  can  grow  from  what  we  should  presume  to 
have  been  the  Poet’s  natural  turn  of  mind.  “This  William,” 
says  he,  “  being  inclined  naturally  to  poetry  and  acting,  came 
to  London,  I  guess,  about  eighteen,  and  was  an  actor  in  one 
of  the  playhouses,  and  did  act  exceedingly  well.  He  began 
early  to  make  essays  in  dramatic  poetry,  which  at  that  time 
was  very  low,  and  his  plays  took  well.  He  was  a  hand¬ 
some,  well-shaped  man,  very  good  company,  and  of  a  very 
ready  and  pleasant  smooth  wit.  Ben  Jonson  and  he  did 
gather  humours  of  men  daily  wherever  they  came.” 

Now  the  Drama  was  then  a  great  and  rising  institution  in 
England,  and  of  course  the  dramatic  interest  had  its  centre 
in  the  metropolis.  And,  from  what  Shakespeare  actually 
accomplished  in  the  Drama,  it  is  evident  that  he  must  have 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


21 


had  a  great  natural  genius  for  just  that  sort  of  thing.  Such 
genius  has  corresponding  instincts,  which  are  uneasy  and 
restless  till  they  find  their  natural  place,  but  spontaneously 
recognize  and  take  to  that  place  on  meeting  with  it.  So, 
when  dramatic  performances  fell  under  the  youthful  Shake¬ 
speare’s  eye,  his  genius  could  hardly  fail  to  be  strongly  kin¬ 
dled  towards  the  Drama  as  its  native  and  proper  element ; 
the  pre-established  harmony  thus  instinctively  prompting  and 
guiding  him  to  the  work  for  which  his  mind  was  specially 
attuned,  and  in  which  it  would  be  most  at  home.  This,  no 
doubt,  was  the  prmcipal  cause  of  his  betaking  himself  to  the 
stage.  Nothing  further  was  wanting  but  an  answering  oppor¬ 
tunity  ;  and  this  was  supplied  by  the  passion  for  dramatic 
entertainments  which  then  pervaded  all  ranks  of  the  English 
people. 

The  deer-stealing  matter  as  given  by  Rowe  is  as  follows  : 
That  Shakespeare  fell  into  the  company  of  some  wild  fellows 
who  were  in  the  habit  of  stealing  deer,  and  who  drew  him 
into  robbing  a  park  owned  by  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  of  Charle- 
cote,  near  Stratford.  That,  being  prosecuted  for  this,  he 
lampooned  Sir  Thomas  in  some  bitter  verses ;  which  made 
the  Knight  so  sharp  after  him,  that  he  had  to  steal  himself 
off  and  take  shelter  in  London. 

Several  have  attempted  to  refute  this  story ;  but  the  main 
substance  of  it  stands  approved  by  too  much  strength  of 
credible  tradition  to  be  easily  overthrown.  And  it  is  certain 
from  public  records  that  the  Lucys  had  great  power  at  Strat¬ 
ford,  and  were  not  seldom  engaged  in  disputes  with  the 
corporation.  Mr.  Halliwell  met  with  an  old  record  entitled 
“  the  names  of  them  that  made  the  riot  upon  Master  Thomas 
Lucy,  Esquire.”  Thirty-five  inhabitants  of  Stratford,  chiefly 
tradespeople,  are  named  in  the  list,  but  no  Shakespeares 
among  them. 

Knight,  over-zealous  in  the  Poet’s  behalf,  will  not  allow 


22 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


any  thing  to  be  true  that  infers  the  least  moral  blemish  in 
his  life  :  he  therefore  utterly  discredits  the  story  in  question, 
and  hunts  it  down  with  arguments  more  ingenious  than 
sound.  In  writing  biography,  special-pleading  is  not  good  ; 
and  I  would  fain  avoid  trying  to  make  the  Poet  out  any 
better  than  he  was.  Little  as  we  know  about  him,  it  is  evi¬ 
dent  enough  that  he  had  bis  frailties,  and  ran  into  divers 
faults,  both  as  a  poet  and  as  a  man.  And  when  we  hear 
him  confessing,  as  he  does  in  one  of  his  Sonnets,  “Most 
true  it  is,  that  I  have  look’d  on  truth  askance  and  strangely  ”  ; 
we  may  be  sure  he  was  but  too  conscious  of  things  that 
needed  to  be  forgiven ;  and  that  he  was  as  far  as  any  one 
from  wishing  his  faults  to  pass  for  virtues.  Deer-stealing, 
however,  was  then  a  kind  of  fashionable  sport,  and  whatever 
might  be  its  legal  character,  it  was  not  morally  regarded  as 
involving  any  criminality  or  disgrace.  So  that  the  whole 
thing  may  be  justly  treated  as  a  mere  youthful  frolic,  wherein 
there  might  indeed  be  some  indiscretion,  and  a  deal  of  vexa¬ 
tion  to  the  person  robbed,  but  no  stain  on  the  party  engaged 
in  it. 

The  precise  time  of  the  Poet’s  leaving  Stratford  is  not 
known;  but  we  cannot  well  set  it  down  as  later  than  1586. 
His  children,  Hamnet  and  Judith,  were  born,  as  I  have  said, 
in  the  early  part  of  1585  ;  and  for  several  years  before  that 
time  his  father’s  affairs  were  drooping.  The  prosecutions  of 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  added  to  his  father’s  straitness  of  means, 
may  well  have  made  him  desirous  of  quitting  Stratford; 
while  the  meeting  of  inclination  and  opportunity  in  his  ac¬ 
quaintance  with  the  players  may  have  determined  him  where 
to  go,  and  what  to  do.  The  company  were  already  in  a 
course  of  thrift ;  the  demand  for  their  labours  was  growing ; 
and  he  might  well  see,  in  their  fellowship,  a  chance  of  re¬ 
trieving,  as  he  did  retrieve,  his  father’s  fortune. 

Of  course  there  need  be  no  question  that  Shakespeare 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


23 


held  at  first  a  subordinate  rank  in  the  theatre.  Dowdal, 
writing  in  1693,  tells  us  “he  was  received  into  the  play¬ 
house  as  a  servitor  ”  ;  which  probably  means  that  he  started 
as  an  apprentice  to  some  actor  of  standing,  —  a  thing  not 
unusual  at  the  time.  It  will  readily  be  believed  that  he 
could  not  be  in  such  a  place  long  without  recommending 
himself  to  a  higher  one.  As  for  the  well-known  story  of 
his  being  reduced  to  the  extremity  of  “picking  up  a  little 
money  by  taking  care  of  the  gentlemen’s  horses  that  came 
to  the  play,”  I  cannot  perceive  the  slightest  likelihood  of 
truth  in  it.  The  first  we  hear  of  it  is  in  The  Lives  of  the 
Poets ,  written  by  a  Scotchman  named  Shiels,  and  published 
under  the  name  of  Cibber,  in  1753.  The  story  is  there  said 
to  have  passed  through  Rowe  in  coming  to  the  writer.  If 
so,  then  Rowe  must  have  discredited  it,  else,  surely,  he 
would  not  have  omitted  so  remarkable  a  passage.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  the  station  which  the  Poet’s  family  had  long  held 
at  Stratford,  and  the  fact  of  his  having  influential  friends  at 
hand  from  Warwickshire,  are  enough  to  stamp  it  as  an  arrant 
fiction. 

We  have  seen  that  the  company  of  Burbage  and  his  fel¬ 
lows  held  a  patent  under  the  great  seal,  and  in  1587  took 
the  title  of  “The  Lord  Chamberlain’s  Servants.”  Eleven 
years  before  this  time,  in  1576,  they  had  started  the  Black- 
friars  theatre,  so  named  from  a  monastery  that  had  formerly 
stood  on  or  near  the  same  ground.  Hitherto  the  several 
bands  of  players  had  made  use  of  halls,  or  temporary  erec¬ 
tions  in  the  streets  or  the  inn-yards,  stages  being  set  up, 
and  the  spectators  standing  below,  or  occupying  galleries 
about  the  open  space.  In  1577,  two  other  playhouses  were 
in  operation ;  and  still  others  sprang  up  from  time  to  time. 
The  Blackfriars  and  some  others  were  without  the  limits  of 
the  corporation,  in  what  were  called  “  the  Liberties.”  The 
Mayor  and  Aldermen  of  London  were  from  the  first  decid- 


24 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


edly  hostile  to  all  such  establishments,  and  did  their  best  to 
exclude  them  the  City  and  Liberties ;  but  the  Court,  many 
of  the  chief  nobility,  and,  which  was  still  more,  the  common 
people  favoured  them.  The  whole  mind  indeed  of  Puritan¬ 
ism  was  utterly  down  on  stage-plays  of  all  sorts  and  in  every 
shape.  But  it  did  not  go  to  work  the  right  way  :  it  should 
have  stopped  off  the  demand  for  them.  This,  however,  it 
could  not  do ;  for  the  Drama  was  at  that  time,  as  it  long 
had  been,  an  intense  national  passion  :  the  people  would 
have  plays,  and  could  not  be  converted  from  the  love  of 
them. 

From  what  we  shall  presently  see,  it  would  be  unreason¬ 
able  not  to  suppose,  that  by  the  year  1590  the  Poet  was  well 
started  in  his  dramatic  career;  and  that  the  effect  of  his 
cunning  labours  was  beginning  even  then  to  be  felt  by  his 
senior  fellows  in  that  line.  Allowing  him  to  have  entered 
the  theatre  in  1586,  when  he  was  twenty-two  years  of  age, 
he  must  have  made  good  use  of  his  time,  and  worked  on¬ 
wards  with  surprising  speed,  during  those  four  years  ;  though 
whether  he  got  ahead  more  by  his  acting  or  his  writing,  we 
have  no  certain  knowledge.  In  tragic  parts,  none  of  the 
company  could  shine  beside  the  younger  Burbage ;  while 
Greene,  and  still  more  Kempe,  another  of  the  band,  left 
small  chance  of  distinction  in  comic  parts.  Aubrey,  as  be¬ 
fore  quoted,  tells  us  that  Shakespeare  “was  a  handsome, 
well-shaped  man,”  which  is  no  slight  matter  on  the  stage ; 
and  adds,  “  He  did  act  exceedingly  well.”  Rowe  “  could 
never  meet  with  any  further  account  of  him  this  way,  than 
that  the  top  of  his  performance  was  the  Ghost  in  his  own 
Hamlet .”  But  this  part,  to  be  fairly  dealt  with,  requires  an 
actor  of  no  mean  powers  ;  and,  as  Burbage  is  known  to  have 
played  the  Prince,  we  may  presume  that  “the  Majesty  of 
buried  Denmark  ”  would  not  be  cast  upon  very  inferior 
hands.  That  the  Poet  was  master  of  the  theory  of  acting, 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


25 


and  could  tell,  none  better,  how  the  thing  ought  to  be  done, 
is  evident  enough  from  Hamlet’s  instructions  to  the  players. 
But  it  nowise  follows  that  he  could  perform  his  own  in¬ 
structions. 

Let  us  see  now  how  matters  stood  some  two  years  later. 
One  of  the  most  popular  and  most  profligate  play-writers  of 
that  time  was  Robert  Greene,  who,  having  been  reduced  to 
beggary,  and  forsaken  by  his  companions,  died  miserably 
at  the  house  of  a  poor  shoemaker,  in  September,  1592. 
Shortly  after  he  died,  his  Groatsworth  of  Wit  was  given  to 
the  public  by  Henry  Chettle.  Near  the  close  of  this  tract, 
Greene  makes  an  address  “  to  those  gentlemen  his  quondam 
acquaintance,  who  spend  their  wits  in  making  plays,”  ex¬ 
horting  them  to  desist  from  such  pursuits.  One  of  those 
“  gentlemen  ”  was  Christopher  Marlowe,  distinguished  alike 
for  poetry,  profligacy,  and  profanity ;  the  others  were  Thomas 
Lodge  and  George  Peele.  Greene  here  vents  a  deal  of  fury 
against  the  players,  alleging  that  they  have  all  been  beholden 
to  him,  yet  have  now  forsaken  him ;  and  from  thence  infer¬ 
ring  that  the  three  worthies  whom  he  is  exhorting  will  fare 
no  better  at  their  hands.  After  which  he  goes  on  thus : 
“Yes,  trust  them  not;  for  there  is  an  upstart  crow  beauti¬ 
fied  with  our  feathers,  that,  with  his  1  tiger’s  heart  wrapp’d 
in  a  player’s  hide,’  supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to  bombast 
out  a  blank-verse  as  the  best  of  you ;  and,  being  an  absolute 
Johamies  Fac-totum ,  is  in  own  conceit  the  only  Shake-scene 
in  a  country.” 

Here  the  fling  at  Shakespeare  is  unmistakeable,  and  nobody 
questions  that  he  is  the  “  Shake-scene  ”  of  the  passage.  The 
terms  of  the  allusion  yield  conclusive  evidence  as  to  how  the 
Poet  stood  in  1592.  Though  sneered  at  as  a  player,  it  is 
plain  that  he  was  already  throwing  the  other  play-writers 
into  the  shade,  and  making  their  labours  cheap.  Blank- 
verse  was  Marlowe’s  special  forte,  and  some  of  his  dramas 


26 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


show  no  little  skill  in  the  use  of  it ;  but  here  was  “  an  up¬ 
start”  from  the  country  who  was  able  to  rival  him  in  his  own 
line.  Moreover,  this  Shake-scene  was  a  Do-all,  a  Johannes 
Fac-totum ,  who  could  turn  his  hand  to  any  thing;  and  his 
readiness  to  undertake  what  none  others  could  do  so  well 
naturally  drew  upon  him  the  imputation  of  conceit  from 
those  who  envied  his  rising,  and  whose  lustre  was  growing 
dim  in  his  light. 

It  appears  that  both  Shakespeare  and  Marlowe  were  of¬ 
fended  at  the  liberties  thus  taken  with  them.  For,  before 
the  end  of  that  same  year,  Chettle  published  a  tract  en¬ 
titled  Kind  Hearf  s  Dream ,  wherein  we  have  the  following  : 
“  With  neither  of  them  that  take  offence  was  I  acquainted  ; 
and  with  one  of  them  [Marlowe]  I  care  not  if  I  never  be : 
the  other  I  did  not  so  much  spare  as  since  I  wish  I  had ; 
because  myself  have  seen  his  demeanour  no  less  civil  than 
he  excellent  in  the  quality  he  professes  :  besides,  divers  of 
worship  have  reported  his  uprightness  of  dealing,  which 
argues  his  honesty,  and  his  facetious  grace  in  writing,  that 
approves  his  art.” 

On  the  whole,  we  can  readily  pardon  the  malice  of 
Greene’s  assault  for  the  sake  of  this  tribute,  which  it  was 
the  means  of  drawing  forth,  to  Shakespeare’s  character  as  a 
man  and  his  cunning  as  a  poet.  The  words  “  excellent  in 
the  quality  he  professes,”  refer  to  the  Poet’s  acting ;  while 
the  term  facetious  is  used,  apparently,  not  in  the  sense  it 
now  bears,  but  in  that  of  felicitous  or  happy ,  as  was  com¬ 
mon  at  that  time.  So  it  seems  that  Shakespeare  already 
had  friends  in  London,  some  of  them  “  worshipful,”  too, 
who  were  strongly  commending  him  as  a  poet,  and  who 
were  prompt  to  remonstrate  with  Chettle  against  the  mean 
slur  cast  upon  him. 

This  naturally  starts  the  inquiry,  what  dramas  the  Poet 
had  then  written,  to  earn  such  praise.  Greene  speaks  of 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


27 


him  as  “  beautified  with  our  feathers.”  Probably  there  was 
at  least  some  plausible  colour  of  truth  in  this  charge.  The 
charge,  I  have  no  doubt,  refers  mainly  to  The  Second  and 
Third  Tarts  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth.  The  two  plays  on 
which  these  were  founded  were  published,  respectively,  in 
1594  and  1595,  their  titles  being,  The  First  Part  of  the 
Contention  betwixt  the  two  famous  Houses  of  York  and 
Lancaster ,  and  The  True  Tragedy  of  Richard ’  Duke  of 
York.  In  the  form  there  given,  the  plays  have,  as  Mr. 
White  has  clearly  shown,  along  with  much  of  Shakespeare’s 
work,  many  unquestionable  marks  of  Greene’s  hand.  All 
those  marks,  however,  were  disciplined  out  of  them,  as  they 
have  come  down  to  us  in  Shakespeare’s  works.  There  can 
be  no  doubt,  then,  that  Greene,  and  perhaps  Marlowe  also, 
had  a  part  in  them  as  they  were  printed  in  1594  and  1595, 
though  no  author’s  name  was  then  given.  Now  it  was 
much  the  custom  at  that  time  for  several  playwrights  to 
work  together.  Of  this  we  have  many  well-authenticated 
instances.  The  most  likely  conclusion,  therefore,  is,  that 
these  two  plays  in  their  original  form  were  the  joint  work¬ 
manship  of  Shakespeare,  Greene,  and  Marlowe.  Perhaps, 
however,  there  was  a  still  older  form  of  the  plays,  written 
entirely  by  Marlowe  and  Greene ;  which  older  form  Shake¬ 
speare,  some  time  before  Greene’s  death,  may  have  taken 
in  hand,  and  recast,  retaining  more  or  less  of  their  matter, 
and  working  it  in  with  his  own  nobler  stuff ;  for  this  was 
often  done  also.  Or,  again,  it  may  be  that,  before  the  time 
in  question,  Shakespeare,  not  satisfied  to  be  joint  author 
with  them,  had  rewritten  the  plays,  and  purged  them  of 
nearly  all  matter  but  what  he  might  justly  claim  as  his  own ; 
thus  making  them  as  we  now  have  them. 

As  regards  the  occasion  of  Greene’s  assault,  it  matters 
little  which  of  these  views  we  take,  as  in  either  case  his 
charge  would  have  some  apparent  ground  of  truth.  It  is 


2  8 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


further  probable  that  the  same  course  of  remark  would 
apply  more  or  less  to  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew ,  and  also 
to  Titus  Andronicus.  At  all  events,  I  have  no  doubt  that 
these  four  plays,  together  with  The  First  Part  of  King 
Henry  the  Sixth,  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  The  Two  Gentle¬ 
men  of  Verona ,  and  Love's  Labours  Lost,  in  its  first  form, 
were  all  written  before  the  time  of  Greene’s  death.  Per¬ 
haps  the  first  shape,  also,  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  should  be 
added  to  this  list. 

My  reasons  for  this  opinion  are  too  long  to  be  stated  here  : 
I  can  but  observe  that  in  these  plays,  as  might  be  expected 
from  one  who  was  modest  and  wished  to  learn,  we  have 
much  of  imitation  as  distinguished  from  character,  though 
of  imitation  surpassing  its  models.  And  it  seems  to  me  that 
no  fair  view  can  be  had  of  the  Poet’s  mind,  no  justice  done 
to  his  art,  but  by  carefully  discriminating  in  his  work  what 
grew  from  imitation,  and  what  from  character.  For  he  evi¬ 
dently  wrote  very  much  like  others  of  his  time,  before  he 
learned  to  write  like  himself ;  that  is,  it  was  some  time  before 
he  found,  by  practice  and  experience,  his  own  strength  ;  and 
meanwhile  lie  relied  more  or  less  on  the  strength  of  custom 
and  example.  Nor  was  it  till  he  had  surpassed  others  in 
their  way,  that  he  hit  upon  that  more  excellent  way  in  which 
none  could  walk  but  he. 

It  has  been  quite  too  common  to  speak  of  Shakespeare  as 
a  miracle  of  spontaneous  genius,  who  did  his  best  things  by 
force  of  instinct,  not  of  art ;  and  that,  consequently,  he  was 
nowise  indebted  to  time  and  experience  for  the  reach  and 
power  which  his  dramas  display.  This  is  an  “old  fond 
paradox  ”  which  seems  to  have  originated  with  those  who 
could  not  conceive  how  any  man  could  acquire  intellectual 
skill  without  scholastic  advantages ;  forgetting,  apparently, 
that  several  things,  if  not  more,  may  be  learned  in  the  school 
of  Nature,  provided  one  have  an  eye  to  read  her  “  open  se- 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


29 


crets  ”  without  “  the  spectacles  of  books.”  This  notion  has 
vitiated  a  good  deal  of  Shakespearian  criticism.  Rowe  had 
something  of  it.  “Art,”  says  he,  “had  so  little,  and  Nature 
so  large  a  share  in  what  Shakespeare  did,  that,  for  aught  I 
know,  the  performances  of  his  youth  were  the  best.”  I  think 
decidedly  otherwise ;  and  have  grounds  for  doing  so  which 
Rowe  had  not,  in  what  has  since  been  done  towards  ascer¬ 
taining  the  chronology  of  the  Poet’s  plays. 

It  would  seem  from  Chettle’s  apology,  that  Shakespeare 
was  already  beginning  to  attract  liberal  notice  from  that  cir¬ 
cle  of  brave  and  accomplished  gentlemen  which  adorned  the 
state  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Among  the  “  divers  of  worship,” 
first  and  foremost  stood,  no  doubt,  the  high-souled,  the 
generous  Southampton,  then  in  his  twentieth  year.  Henry 
Wriothesley,  the  third  Earl  of  Southampton,  was  but  eight 
years  old  when  his  father  died :  the  Southampton  estates 
were  large ;  during  the  young  Earl’s  minority  his  interests 
were  in  good  hands,  and  the  revenues  accumulated ;  so  that 
on  coming  of  age  he  had  means  answerable  to  his  disposi¬ 
tions.  Moreover,  he  was  a  young  man  of  good  parts,  of 
studious  habits,  of  cultivated  tastes,  and  withal  of  a  highly 
chivalrous  and  romantic  spirit :  to  all  which  he  added  the 
honour  of  being  the  early  and  munificent  patron  of  Shake¬ 
speare.  In  1593,  the  Poet  published  his  Venus  and  Adonis , 
with  a  modest  and  manly  dedication  to  this  nobleman,  very 
different  from  the  usual  high-flown  style  of  literary  adulation 
then  in  vogue  ;  telling  him,  “  If  your  Honour  seem  but  pleased, 
I  account  myself  highly  praised,  and  vow  to  take  advantage 
of  all  idle  hours,  till  I  have  honoured  you  with  some  graver 
labour.”  In  the  dedication,  he  calls  the  poem  “the  first 
heir  of  my  invention.”  Whether  he  dated  its  birth  from  the 
writing  or  the  publishing,  does  not  appear :  probably  it  had 
been  written  some  time ;  possibly  before  he  left  Stratford. 
This  was  followed,  the  next  year,  by  his  Lucrece ,  dedicated 


30 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


to  the  same  nobleman  in  a  strain  of  more  open  and  assured 
friendship  :  “  The  warrant  I  have  of  your  honourable  dispo¬ 
sition,  not  the  worth  of  my  untutored  lines,  makes  it  assured 
of  acceptance.  What  I  have  done  is  yours,  what  I  have  to 
do  is  yours.” 

It  was  probably  about  this  time  that  the  event  took  place 
which  Rowe  heard  of  through  Sir  William  Davenant,  that 
Southampton  at  one  time  gave  the  Poet  a  thousand  pounds, 
to  enable  him  to  go  through  with  a  purchase  which  he  knew 
him  to  be  desirous  of  making.  Rowe  might  well  scruple,  as 
he  did,  the  story  of  so  large  a  gift,  —  equal  to  nearly  $  30,000 
in  our  time ;  but  the  fact  of  his  scruples  being  overruled 
shows  that  he  had  strong  grounds  for  the  statement.  The 
sum  may  indeed  have  been  exaggerated ;  but  all  we  know 
of  the  Earl  assures  us  that  he  could  not  but  wish  to  make 
a  handsome  return  for  the  Ve?ius  and  Adonis  ;  and  that  what¬ 
ever  of  the  kind  he  did  was  bound  to  be  something  rich  and 
rare  ;  while  it  was  but  of  a  piece  with  his  approved  nobleness 
of  character,  to  feel  more  the  honour  he  was  receiving  than 
that  he  was  conferring  by  such  an  act  of  generosity.  Might 
not  this  be  what  Shakespeare  meant  by  “  the  warrant  I  have 
of  your  honourable  disposition”?  That  the  Earl  was  both 
able  and  disposed  to  the  amount  alleged,  need  not  be  scru¬ 
pled  :  tne  only  doubt  has  reference  to  the  Poet’s  occasions. 
Let  us  see,  then,  what  these  may  have  been. 

In  December,  1593,  Richard  Burbage,  who,  his  father 
Having  died  or  retired,  was  then  the  leader  of  the  Black- 
friars  company,  signed  a  contract  for  the  building  of  the 
Globe  theatre.  The  Blackfriars  was  not  accommodation 
enough  for  the  company’s  uses,  but  was  entirely  covered-in, 
and  furnished  suitably  for  the  Winter.  The  Globe,  made 
larger,  and  designed  for  Summer  use,  was  a  round  wooden 
building,  open  to  the  sky,  with  the  stage  protected  by  an 
overhanging  roof.  All  things  considered,  then,  it  is  not 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


31 


incredible  that  the  generous  Earl  may  have  bestowed  even 
as  large  a  sum  as  a  thousand  pounds,  to  enable  the  Poet  to 
do  what  he  wished  towards  the  new  enterprise. 

The  next  authentic  notice  we  have  of  Shakespeare  is  a 
public  tribute  of  admiration  from  the  highest  source  that 
could  have  yielded  any  thing  of  the  sort  at  that  time.  In 
1594,  Edmund  Spenser  published  his  Colin  Clout's  Come 
Home  again ,  which  has  these  lines  : 

And  there,  though  last  not  least,  is  Action : 

A  gentler  Shepherd  may  nowhere  be  found ; 

Whose  Muse,  full  of  high  thought’s  invention, 

Doth ,  like  himself  heroically  sound. 

This  was  Spenser’s  delicate  way  of  suggesting  the  Poet’s 
name.  Ben  Jonson  has  a  like  allusion  in  his  lines,  “  To  the 
Memory  of  my  beloved  Mr.  William  Shakespeare  ”  : 

In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance , 

As  brandish’d  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 

There  can  be  little  doubt,  though  we  have  no  certain 
knowledge  on  the  point,  that  by  this  time  the  Poet’s  genius 
had  sweetened  itself  into  the  good  graces  of  Queen  Eliza¬ 
beth;  as  the  irresistible  compliment  paid  her  in  A  Mid¬ 
summer-Night's  Dream  could  hardly  have  been  of  a  later 
date.  It  would  be  gratifying  to  know  by  what  play  he  made 
his  first  conquest  of  the  Queen.  That  he  did  captivate  her, 
is  told  us  in  Ben  Jonson’s  poem  just  quoted  : 

Sweet  swan  of  Avon,  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear; 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames 
That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James ! 

King  John,  King  Richard  the  Second ',  King  Richard  the 
Third ',  A  Midsummer-Night' s  Dream ,  and  the  original  form 
of  AKs  Well  that  Ends  Well,  were,  no  doubt,  all  written 
before  the  Spring  of  1596.  So  that  these  five  plays,  and 
perhaps  one  or  two  others,  in  addition  to  the  nine  mem 


32 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


tioned  before,  may  by  that  time  have  been  performed  in 
her  Majesty’s  hearing,  “as  well  for  the  recreation  of  our 
loving  subjects  as  for  our  solace  and  pleasure.” 

Aubrey  tells  us  that  Shakespeare  “  was  wont  to  go  to  his 
native  country  once  a-year.”  We  now  have  better  authority 
than  Aubrey  for  believing  that  the  Poet’s  heart  was  in  “  his 
native  country  ”  all  the  while.  No  sooner  is  he  well  estab¬ 
lished  at  London,  and  in  receipt  of  funds  to  spare  from  the 
demands  of  business,  than  we  find  him  making  liberal 
investments  amidst  the  scenes  of  his  youth.  Some  years 
ago,  Mr.  Halliwell  discovered  in  the  Chapter-House,  West¬ 
minster,  a  document  which  ascertains  that  in  the  Spring  of 
1597  Shakespeare  bought  of  William  Underhill,  for  the  sum 
of  ^60,  the  establishment  called  “New  Place,”  described 
as  consisting  of  “  one  messuage,  two  barns,  and  two  gardens, 
with  their  appurtenances.”  This  was  one  of  the  best  dwell¬ 
ing-houses  in  Stratford,  and  was  situate  in  one  of  the  best 
parts  of  the  town.  Early  in  the  sixteenth  century  it  was 
owned  by  the  Cloptons,  and  called  “the  great  house.”  It 
was  in  one  of  the  gardens  belonging  to  this  house  that  the 
Poet  was  believed  to  have  planted  a  mulberry-tree.  New 
Place  remained  in  the  hands  of  Shakespeare  and  his  heirs 
till  the  Restoration,  when  it  was  repurchased  by  the  Clopton 
family.  In  the  Spring  of  1742,  Garrick,  Macklin,  and  De¬ 
lane  were  entertained  there  by  Sir  Hugh  Clopton,  under  the 
Poet’s  mulberry-tree.  About  1752,  the  place  was  sold  to 
the  Rev.  Francis  Gastrell,  who,  falling  out  with  the  Stratford 
authorities  in  some  matter  of  rates,  demolished  the  house, 
and  cut  down  the  tree ;  for  which  his  memory  has  been 
visited  with  exemplary  retribution. 

We  have  other  tokens  of  the  Poet’s  thrift  about  this  time. 
One  of  these  is  a  curious  letter,  dated  January  24,  1598, 
and  written  by  Abraham  Sturley,  an  alderman  of  Stratford, 
to  his  brother-in-law,  Richard  Quiney,  who  was  then  in 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


33 


London  on  business  for  himself  and  others.  Sturley,  it 
seems,  had  learned  that  “  our  countryman,  Mr.  Shake¬ 
speare,”  had  money  to  invest,  and  so  was  for  having  him 
urged  to  buy  up  certain  tithes  at  Stratford,  on  the  ground 
that  such  a  purchase  “would  advance  him  indeed,  and 
would  do  us  much  good  ” ;  the  meaning  of  which  is,  that 
the  Stratford  people  were  in  want  of  money,  and  were  look¬ 
ing  to  Shakespeare  for  a  supply. 

Another  token  of  like  import  is  a  letter  written  by  the 
same  Richard  Quiney,  whose  son  Thomas  afterwards  married 
the  Poet’s  youngest  daughter.  The  letter  was  dated,  “From 
the  Bell,  in  Carter-lane,  the  25th  October,  1598,”  and  ad¬ 
dressed  “To  my  loving  good  friend  and  countryman,  Mr. 
Wm.  Shakespeare.”  The  purpose  of  the  letter  was  to 
solicit  a  loan  of  ^30  from  the  Poet  on  good  security.  No 
private  letter  written  by  Shakespeare  has  been  found ;  and 
this  is  the  only  one  written  to  him  that  has  come  to  light. 
How  the  writer’s  request  was  answered  we  have  no  certain 
information ;  but  we  may  fairly  conclude  the  answer  to  have 
been  satisfactory,  because  on  the  same  day  Quiney  wrote  to 
Sturley,  and  in  Sturley ’s  reply,  dated  November  4,  1598, 
which  is  also  extant,  the  writer  expresses  himself  much  com¬ 
forted  at  learning  that  “our  countryman,  Mr.  Wm.  Shak., 
would  procure  us  money.” 

The  earliest  printed  copies  of  Shakespeare’s  plays,  known 
in  our  time,  are  Romeo  and  Juliet King  Richard  the  Second, 
and  King  Richard  the  Third,  which  were  published  sepa¬ 
rately  in  1597.  Two  years  later  there  was  another  edition 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  “  newly  corrected,  augmented,  and 
amended.”  In  1598,  two  more,  The  First  Part  of  King 
Henry  the  Fourth  and  Love's  Labours  Lost,  came  from  the 
press.  The  author’s  name  was  not  given  in  any  of  these 
issues  except  Love's  Labours  Lost,  which  was  said  to  be 
“  newly  corrected  and  augmented,”  King  Richard  the 


34 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


Second  and  King  Richard  the  Third  were  issued  again  in 
1598,  and  The  First  Part  of  King  Henry  the  Fourth  in 
1599  ;  and  in  all  these  cases  the  author’s  name  was  printed 
in  the  title-page.  The  Second  Part  of  King  Henry  the 
Fourth  was  most  likely  written  before  1598,  but  we  hear  of 
no  edition  of  it  till  1600. 

Francis  Meres  has  the  honour  of  being  the  first  critic  of 
Shakespeare  that  appeared  in  print.  In  1598,  he  put  forth 
a  book  entitled  Palladis  Tamia,  or  Wit's  Treasury ,  which 
has  the  following :  “  As  Plautus  and  Seneca  are  accounted 
the  best  for  comedy  and  tragedy  among  the  Latins ;  so 
Shakespeare  among  the  English  is  the  most  excellent  in 
both  kinds  for  the  stage.”  The  writer  then  instances  twelve 
of  the  Poet’s  dramas  by  title,  in  proof  of  his  point.  His 
list,  however,  contains  none  but  what  I  have  already  men¬ 
tioned,  except  The  Merchant  of  Venice.  Taking  all  our 
sources  of  information  together,  we  find  at  least  seventeen 
of  the  plays  written  before  1598,  when  the  Poet  was  thirty- 
four  years  of  age,  and  had  probably  been  in  the  theatre 
about  twelve  years.  ' 

Shakespeare  was  now  decidedly  at  the  head  of  the  English 
Drama ;  moreover,  he  had  found  it  a  low,  foul,  disreputable 
thing,  chiefly  in  the  hands  of  profligate  adventurers,  and  he 
had  lifted  it  out  of  the  mire,  breathed  strength  and  sweet¬ 
ness  into  it,  and  made  it  clean,  fair,  and  honourable,  a 
structure  all  alive  with  beauty  and  honest  delectation.  Such 
being  the  case,  his  standing  was  naturally  firm  and  secure ; 
he  had  little  cause  to  fear  rivalry ;  he  could  well  afford  to  be 
generous ;  and  any  play  that  had  his  approval  would  be 
likely  to  pass.  Ben  Jonson,  whose  name  has  a  peculiar 
right  to  be  coupled  with  his,  was  ten  years  younger  than 
he,  and  was  working  with  that  learned  and  sinewy  diligence 
which  marked  his  character.  We  have  it  on  the  sound 
authority  of  Rowe,  that  Shakespeare  lent  a  helping  hand 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


35 


to  honest  Ben,  and  on  an  occasion  that  does  credit  to  them 
both.  “Mr.  Jonson,”  says  he,  “who  was  at  that  time  alto¬ 
gether  unknown  to  the  world,  had  offered  one  of  his  plays 
to  the  players,  in  order  to  have  it  acted ;  and  the  persons 
into  whose  hands  it  was  put,  after  having  turned  it  carelessly 
and  superciliously  over,  were  just  upon  returning  it  to  him, 
with  an  ill-natured  answer  that  it  would  be  of  no  service  to 
their  company,  when  Shakespeare  luckily  cast  his  eye  upon 
it,  and  found  something  in  it  so  well,  as  to  engage  him  first 
to  read  it  through,  and  afterwards  to  recommend  Mr.  Jonson 
and  his  writings  to  the  public.” 

Some  attempts  have  been  made  to  impugn  this  account, 
but  the  result  of  them  all  has  been  rather  to  confirm  it. 
How  nobly  the  Poet’s  gentle  and  judicious  act  of  kindness 
was  remembered,  is  shown  by  Jonson’s  superb  verses,  some 
of  which  I  have  quoted,  prefixed  to  the  folio  of  1623  ; 
enough  of  themselves  to  confer  an  immortality  both  on  the 
writer  and  on  the  subject  of  them. 

In  1599,  we  find  a  coat-of-arms  granted  to  John  Shake¬ 
speare,  by  the  Heralds’  College,  in  London.  The  grant 
was  made,  no  doubt,  at  the  instance  of  his  son  William. 
The  matter  is  involved  in  a  good  deal  of  perplexity ;  the 
claims  of  the  son  being  confounded  with  those  of  the  father, 
in  order,  apparently,  that  out  of  the  two  together  might  be 
made  a  good,  or  at  least  a  plausible,  case.  Our  Poet,  the 
son  of  a  glover,  or  a  yeoman,  had  evidently  set  his  heart  on 
being  heralded  into  a  gentleman ;  and,  as  his  profession  of 
actor  stood  in  the  way,  the  application  was  made  in  his 
father’s  name.  The  thing  was  started  as  early  as  1596,  but 
so  much  question  was  had,  so  many  difficulties  raised,  con¬ 
cerning  it,  that  the  Poet  was  three  years  in  working  it 
through.  To  be  sure,  such  heraldic  gentry  was  of  little 
worth  in  itself,  and  the  Poet  knew  this  well  enough ;  but 
then  it  assured  a  certain  very  desirable  social  standing,  and 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


36 

therefore,  as  an  aspiring  member  of  society,  he  was  right  in 
seeking  it. 

In  the  year  1600,  five  more  of  his  plays  were  published 
in  as  many  quarto  pamphlets.  These  were,  A  Midsummer- 
Night' s  Dream ,  The  Merchant  of  Venice ,  Much  Ado  about 
Nothing ,  The  Second  Part  of  King  Henry  the  Fourth,  and 
King  Henry  the  Fifth.  It  appears,  also,  that  As  You  Likt. 
It  was  then  written ;  for  it  was  entered  at  the  Stationers’  fof 
publication,  but  was  locked  up  from  the  press  under  a  “  stay.” 
The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  was  probably  then  in  being 
also,  though  not  printed  till  1602.  And  a  recent  discovery 
ascertains  that  Twelfth  Night  was  played  in  February,  1602. 
The  original  form  of  Hamlet ,  too,  is  known  to  have  been 
written  before  1603.  Adding,  then,  the  six  plays  now  heard 
of  for  the  first  time,  to  the  seventeen  mentioned  before,  we 
have  twenty-three  plays  written  before  the  Poet  had  finished 
his  thirty-eighth  year. 

The  great  Queen  died  on  the  24th  of  March,  1603.  We 
have  abundant  proof  that  she  was,  both  by  her  presence 
and  her  purse,  a  frequent  and  steady  patron  of  the  Drama, 
especially  as  its  interests  were  represented  by  “  the  Lord 
Chamberlain’s  servants.”  Everybody,  no  doubt,  has  heard 
the  tradition  of  her  having  been  so  taken  with  Falstaff  in 
King  Henry  the  Fourth ,  that  she  requested  the  Poet  to  con¬ 
tinue  the  character  through  another  play,  and  to  represent 
him  in  love ;  whereupon  he  wrote  The  Merry  Wives  of  Wind¬ 
sor.  Whatever  embellishments  may  have  been  added,  there 
is  nothing  incredible  in  the  substance  of  the  tradition ;  while 
the  approved  taste  and  judgment  of  this  female  king,  in  mat¬ 
ters  of  literature  and  art,  give  it  strong  likelihoods  of  truth. 

Elizabeth  knew  how  to  unbend  in  such  noble  delectations 
without  abating  her  dignity  as  a  queen,  or  forgetting  her  duty 
as  the  mother  of  her  people.  If  the  patronage  of  King 
James  fell  below  hers  in  wisdom,  it  was  certainly  not  lacking 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


3  7 


in  warmth.  One  of  his  first  acts,  after  reaching  London, 
was  to  order  out  a  warrant  from  the  Privy  Seal  for  the  issuing 
of  a  patent  under  the  Great  Seal,  whereby  the  Lord  Cham¬ 
berlain’s  players  were  taken  into  his  immediate  patronage 
under  the  title  of  “  The  King’s  Servants.”  The  instrument 
names  nine  players,  and  Shakespeare  stands  second  in  the 
list.  Nor  did  the  King’s  patent  prove  a  mere  barren  hon¬ 
our  :  many  instances  of  the  company’s  playing  at  the  Court, 
and  being  well  paid  for  it,  are  on  record. 

The  Poet  evidently  was,  as  indeed  from  the  nature  of  his 
position  he  could  not  but  be,  very  desirous  of  withdrawing 
from  the  stage ;  and  had  long  cherished,  apparently,  a  de¬ 
sign  of  doing  so.  In  several  passages  of  his  Sonnets  he 
expresses,  in  very-  strong  and  even  pathetic  language,  his 
intense  dislike  of  the  business,  and  his  grief  at  being  com¬ 
pelled  to  pursue  it : 

Alas,  ’tis  true,  I  have  gone  here  and  there, 

And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 

Gored  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear, 

Made  old  offences  of  affections  new ; 

Most  true  it  is,  that  I  have  look’d  on  truth 
Askance  and  strangely. 

O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 

The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 

That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 

Than  public  means,  which  public  manners  breeds. 

Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand ; 

And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer’s  hand. 

At  what  time  he  carried  into  effect  his  purpose  of  retirement 
is  not  precisely  known  ;  nor  can  I  stay  to  trace  out  the  argu¬ 
ment  on  that  point.  The  probability  is,  that  he  ceased  to  be 
an  actor  in  the  Summer  of  1604.  The  preceding  year,  1603, 
Ben  Jonson’s  Sejanus  was  brought  out  at  the  Blackfriars, 
and  one  of  the  parts  was  sustained  by  Shakespeare.  After 


3§ 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


this  we  have  no  note  of  his  appearance  on  the  stage ;  and 
there  are  certain  traditions  inferring  the  contrary.  “The 
latter  part  of  his  life,”  says  Rowe,  “  was  spent,  as  all  men  of 
good  sense  will  wish  theirs  may  be,  in  ease,  retirement,  and 
the  conversation  of  his  friends.  He  had  the  good  fortune  to 
gather  an  estate  equal  to  his  occasion,  and,  in  that,  to  his 
wish ;  and  is  said  to  have  spent  some  years  before  his  death 
at  his  native  Stratford.  His  pleasurable  wit  and  good  nature 
engaged  him  in  the  acquaintance,  and  entitled  him  to  the 
friendship,  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  neighbourhood.”  Dyce, 
also,  observes,  “  It  is  evident  that  Shakespeare  never  ceased 
to  turn  his  thoughts  towards  his  birth-place,  as  the  spot 
where  he  hoped  to  spend  the  evening  of  his  days  in  hon¬ 
ourable  retirement.” 

In  1603,  an  edition  of  Hamlet  was  published,  though  very 
different  from  the  present  form  of  the  play.  The  next  year, 
1604,  the  finished  Hamlet  was  published  ;  the  title-page  con¬ 
taining  the  words,  “  enlarged  to  almost  as  much  again  as  it 
was.”  Of  Measure  for  Measure  we  have  no  authentic  notice 
during  the  Poet’s  life.  Of  Ti?non  of  Athens  and  Julius  Ccesar 
we  have  no  express  contemporary  notice  at  all,  authentic  or 
otherwise.  Nor  have  we  any  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  till 
1609,  in  which  year  a  stolen  edition  of  it  was  published. 
Nevertheless,  I  have  no  doubt  that  these  plays  were  all 
written,  though  perhaps  not  all  in  their  present  shape,  be¬ 
fore  the  close  of  1604.  Reckoning,  then,  the  four  last  named, 
we  have  twenty-seven  of  the  plays  written  when  the  Poet  was 
forty  years  of  age,  and  had  probably  been  at  the  work  about 
eighteen  years.  Time  has  indeed  left  few  traces  of  the  pro¬ 
cess  ;  but  what  a  magnificent  treasure  of  results  !  If  Shake¬ 
speare  had  done  no  more,  he  would  have  stood  the  greatest 
intellect  of  the  world.  How  all  alive  must  those  eighteen 
years  have  been  with  intense  and  varied  exertion  !  His 
quick  discernment,  his  masterly  tact,  his  grace  of  manners, 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


39 


his  practical  judgment,  and  his  fertility  of  expedients,  would 
needs  make  him  the  soul  of  the  establishment ;  doubtless  the 
light  of  his  eye  and  the  life  of  his  hand  were  in  all  its  move¬ 
ments  and  plans.  Besides,  the  compass  and  accuracy  of 
information  displayed  in  his  writings  prove  him  to  have  been, 
for  that  age,  a  careful  and  voluminous  student  of  books. 
Portions  of  classical  and  of  continental  literature  were  acces¬ 
sible  to  him  in  translations.  Nor  are  we  without  strong  rea¬ 
sons  for  believing  that,  in  addition  to  his  “small  Latin  and 
less  Greek,”  he  found  or  made  time  to  form  a  tolerable 
reading  acquaintance  with  Italian  and  French.  Chaucer, 
too,  “the  day-star,”  and  Spenser,  “the  sunrise,”  of  English 
poetry,  were  pouring  their  beauty  round  his  walks.  From 
all  these,  and  from  the  growing  richness  and  abundance  of 
contemporary  literature,  his  all-gifted  and  all-grasping  mind 
no  doubt  greedily  took  in  and  quickly  digested  whatever  was 
adapted  to  please  his  taste,  or  enrich  his  intellect,  or  assist 
his  art. 

I  have  mentioned  the  Poet’s  purchase  of  New  Place  at 
Stratford  in  1597.  Thenceforward  he  kept  making  other 
investments  from  time  to  time,  some  of  them  pretty  large, 
the  records  of  which  have  lately  come  to  light.  It  appears 
by  a  subsidy  roll  of  1598,  that  he  was  assessed  on  property 
valued  at  ^5,  13  s.  in  the  parish  of  St.  Helen’s,  Bishops- 
gate,  London.  In  May,  1602,  was  executed  a  deed  of  con¬ 
veyance  whereby  he  became  the  owner  of  a  hundred  and 
seven  acres  of  arable  land  in  the  town  of  Old  Stratford, 
bought  of  William  and  John  Combe  for  the  sum  of  ^320. 
In  September  following,  a  copyhold  house  in  Walker-street, 
near  New  Place,  was  surrendered  to  him  by  Walter  Getley. 
This  property  was  held  under  the  manor  of  Rowington  :  the 
transfer  took  place  at  the  court-baron  of  the  manor ;  and  it 
appears  that  the  Poet  was  not  present  at  the  time ;  there 
being  a  proviso,  that  the  property  should  remain  in  the 


40 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


hands  of  the  Lady  of  the  manor  till  the  purchaser  had  done 
suit  and  service  in  the  court.  One  Philip  Rogers,  it  seems, 
had  several  times  bought  malt  of  Shakespeare  to  the  amount 
of  jQ  i,  15  s.  lod. ;  and  in  1604  the  Poet,  not  being  able  to 
get  payment,  filed  in  the  Stratford  Court  of  Record  a  decla¬ 
ration  of  suit  against  him ;  which  probably  had  the  desired 
effect,  as  nothing  more  is  heard  of  it.  This  item  is  interest¬ 
ing,  as  it  shows  the  Poet  engaged  in  other  pursuits  than  those 
relating  to  the  stage.  We  have  seen  how,  in  1598,  Alderman 
Sturley  was  for  “  moving  him  to  deal  in  the  matter  of  our 
tithes.”  This  was  a  matter  wherein  much  depended  on 
good  management ;  and,  as  the  town  had  a  yearly  rent  from 
the  tithes,  it  was  for  the  public  interest  to  have  them  man¬ 
aged  well ;  and  the  moving  of  Shakespeare  to  deal  in  the 
matter  sprang  most  likely  from  confidence  in  his  practical 
judgment  and  skill.  The  tithes  of  “  corn,  grain,  blade,  and 
hay,”  and  also  those  of  “  wool,  lamb,  hemp,  flax,  and  other 
small  and  privy  tithes,”  in  Stratford,  Old  Stratford,  Welcombe, 
and  Bishopton,  had  been  leased  in  1544  for  the  term  of 
ninety-two  years.  In  July,  1605,  the  unexpired  term  of  the 
lease,  thirty-one  years,  was  bought  in  by  Shakespeare  for 
the  sum  of  ^440.  In  the  indenture  of  conveyance,  he  is 
styled  “William  Shakespeare,  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  Gen¬ 
tleman :.” 

Hitherto,  the  Poet  has  been  overtaken  in  business  affairs 
rather  oftener  than  in  poetical.  His  subsequent  years  fur¬ 
nish  about  the  usual  proportion  of  similar  notices,  which 
may  as  well  be  related  here.  —  The  Stratford  records  show 
that  in  August,  1608,  he  brought  an  action  against  John 
Addenbrook  for  the  recovery  of  a  debt,  and  that,  after  a 
delay  of  several  months,  a  verdict  was  given  in  his  favour 
for  £6,  and  24  s.  costs.  Return  being  made  that  Adden¬ 
brook  was  not  to  be  found  within  the  borough,  Shakespeare, 
in  June  following,  proceeded  against  Thomas  Horneby,  who 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


41 


had  become  bail  for  him,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  he  got  his 
money. 

We  have  seen  that  in  May,  1602,  Shakespeare  purchased 
of  the  Combes  a  hundred  and  seven  acres  of  arable  land  in 
Old  Stratford.  In  the  Spring  of  16 11  a  fine  was  levied  on 
this  property,  and  it  thereby  appears  that  twenty  acres  of 
pasture  had  been  added  to  the  original  purchase.  At  what 
time  the  addition  was  made,  is  nowhere  stated.  The  fine 
states  the  purchase  money  as  £100,  which  Halliwell  thinks 
to  be  a  mere  legal  fiction. 

About  this  time,  the  Stratford  people  seem  to  have  been 
a  good  deal  interested  in  “  a  bill  in  Parliament  for  the  better 
repair  of  the  highways,  and  amending  divers  defects  in  the 
statutes  already  made  ”  :  funds  were  “  collected  towards  the 
charge  of  prosecuting  the  bill”;  and  “Mr.  William  Shake¬ 
speare  ”  is  one  of  the  names  found  in  a  list  of  donations  for 
that  purpose,  dated  “Wednesday  the  nth  of  September, 
161 1.” 

The  probability  is  that  after  this  time  Shakespeare  saw 
but  little  of  the  metropolis.  Rowe  tells  us,  in  a  passage 
quoted  a  few  pages  back,  that  “  the  latter  part  of  his  life  was 
spent  in  ease,  retirement,  and  the  conversation  of  his  friends.” 
Still  he  was,  like  other  men,  not  without  his  vexations.  The 
exact  date  does  not  appear,  but  about  the  end  of  1612  he 
was  involved  in  a  chancery  suit  respecting  the  tithes  he  had 
bought  in  1605.  The  plaintiffs  in  the  case  are  described  as 
“  Richard  Lane,  of  Alveston,  Esquire,  Thomas  Greene,  of 
Stratford-upon-Avon,  Esquire,  and  William  Shakespeare,  of 
Stratford-upon-Avon,  gentleman.”  It  seems  that  there  was 
a  reserved  rent  on  the  lease  of  the  tithes,  and  that,  some  of 
the  lessees  refusing  to  pay  their  shares  of  this  rent,  a  greater 
proportion  than  was  right  fell  upon  Lane,  Greene,  and 
Shakespeare ;  who  thereupon  filed  a  bill  before  Lord  Chan¬ 
cellor  Ellesmere,  that  the  other  lessees  might  be  compelled 


42 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


to  due  payment.  The  issue  of  the  suit  is  not  known ;  but 
the  draft  of  the  bill  is  valuable  as  showing  the  Poet’s  exact 
income  from  the  tithes  :  it  was  £  60  a-year. 

The  last  pecuniary  transaction  of  his  that  has  come  to 
light  was  the  purchase  of  a  house  with  a  small  piece  of 
ground  attached  to  it,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Black- 
friars  theatre.  The  indenture  of  conveyance,  preserved  in 
the  archives  of  the  London  corporation,  describes  the  prop¬ 
erty  as  “  abutting  upon  a  street  leading  down  to  Puddle- 
wharf  on  the  east  part,  right  against  the  King’s  Majesty’s 
Wardrobe,”  and  the  vendor  as  “  Henry  Walker,  citizen  and 
minstrel,  of  London.”  It  is  dated  March  ioth,  1613,  and 
bears  the  Poet’s  signature,  which  shows  that  he  was  in 
London  at  the  time.  The  purchase-money  was  ^140,  of 
which  80  were  paid  down,  and  the  premises  mortgaged 
for  the  remainder,  the  mortgage  to  run  till  the  29th  of 
September  following.  Why  the  purchase  was  made,  does 
not  appear;  but,  as  John  Heminge,  William  Johnson,  and 
John  Jackson  were  parties  to  the  transaction,  Mr.  Collier 
conjectures  that  the  Poet  advanced  the  £80  to  them, 
expecting  they  would  refund  it  before  the  expiration  of  the 
mortgage ;  but,  as  they  did  not  do  so,  he  paid  the  other 
£  60,  and  the  property  remained  his. 

On  the  29th  of  June,  the  same  year,  the  Globe  theatre 
was  burnt  down,  and  certain  contemporary  notices  of  the 
event  ascertain  that  King  Henry  VIII .  was  in  performance 
at  the  time.  As  the  conflagration  was  very  rapid,  giving 
the  people  barely  time  to  save  themselves,  it  is  likely 
that  many  of  the  Poet’s  manuscripts  perished,  and  perhaps 
some,  of  which  no  copies  were  left.  The  theatre  was  soon 
rebuilt,  and,  as  Stowe  informs  us,  “  at  the  great  charge  of 
King  James,  and  many  noblemen  and  others.”  The  Poet 
is  not  traced  as  having  any  thing  to  do  with  the  rebuilding 
of  the  establishment ;  but,  if  he  suffered  no  loss  himself,  we 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


43 


may  be  sure  that  he  took  a  lively  interest  in  the  losses  of 
his  fellows,  and  was  forward  to  lend  them  a  helping  hand. 

The  Summer  following,  he  had  a  narrow  escape  from  a 
similar  calamity  at  home.  On  the  9th  of  July,  1614,  Strat¬ 
ford  was  devastated  by  fire,  to  such  an  extent  that  the  people 
made  an  appeal  to  the  nation  for  relief.  At  the  instance  of 
various  gentlemen  of  the  neighbourhood,  the  King  issued  a 
brief  in  May,  1615,  authorizing  collections  to  be  made  in 
the  churches  for  the  rebuilding  of  the  town,  and  alleging 
that  fifty-four  dwelling-houses  had  been  destroyed,  besides 
much  other  property,  amounting  in  all  to  upwards  of  jQ  8,000. 
The  result  of  the  appeal  is  not  known ;  nor  is  it  known  what 
influence  the  Poet  may  have  used  towards  procuring  the 
royal  brief. 

The  Fall  of  1614  finds  Shakespeare  in  London  using  his 
influence  effectually  in  the  cause  of  his  fellow-citizens.  It 
seems  that  several  persons  had  set  on  foot  a  project  for  in¬ 
closing  certain  commons  near  Stratford,  which  the  public 
were  interested  to  keep  open.  The  Poet  had  private  rea¬ 
sons,  also,  for  bestirring  himself  in  the  matter,  as  the  pro¬ 
jected  inclosure  was  likely  to  affect  his  interest  in  the  lease 
of  the  tithes.  A  legal  instrument,  dated  October  28,  1614, 
is  extant,  whereby  William  Replingham  binds  himself  to 
indemnify  William  Shakespeare  and  Thomas  Greene  for  any 
loss  which  they,  in  the  judgment  of  certain  referees,  may 
sustain  in  respect  of  the  yearly  value  of  the  tithes  they  jointly 
or  severally  hold,  “  by  reason  of  any  inclosure  or  decay  of 
tillage  there  meant  or  intended.” 

A  few  days  after,  Greene  is  found  in  London  moving  in 
the  business  as  clerk  of  the  Stratford  corporation.  In  some 
notes  of  his  made  at  the  time,  we  have  the  following,  dated 
November  17,  1614  :  “My  cousin  Shakespeare  coming  yes¬ 
terday  to  town,  I  went  to  see  him,  how  he  did.  He  told  me 
that  they  assured  him  they  meant  to  inclose  no  further  than 


44 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


to  Gospel-bush,  and  so  up  straight  (leaving  out  part  of  the 
dingles  to  the  field)  to  the  gate  in  Clopton  hedge,  and  take 
in  Salisbury’s  piece ;  and  that  they  mean  in  April  to  survey 
the  land,  and  then  to  give  satisfaction,  and  not  before ;  and 
he  and  Mr.  Hall  say  they  think  there  will  be  nothing  done 
at  all.” 

Greene  returned  to  Stratford  soon  after,  and  his  notes, 
which  he  continued  to  make,  inform  us  that  the  corporation 
had  a  meeting  on  the  23d  of  December,  and  sent  letters  to 
Shakespeare  and  Mainwaring  :  “  Letters  written,  one  to  Mr. 
Mainwaring,  another  to  Mr.  Shakespeare,  with  almost  all 
the  company’s  hands  to  either.  I  also  writ  myself  to  my 
cousin  Shakespeare  the  copies  of  all  our  acts,  and  then  also 
a  note  of  the  inconveniences  that  would  happen  by  the  in¬ 
closure.”  The  letters  to  Shakespeare  are  lost :  in  that  to 
Mainwaring,  which  is  preserved,  the  corporation  urged  in 
strong  terms  the  damage  Stratford  would  suffer  by  the  pro¬ 
jected  inclosure,  and  also  the  heavy  loss  the  people  had 
lately  sustained  by  fire.  Mr.  Arthur  Mainwaring  was  a  per¬ 
son  in  the  domestic  service  of  Lord  Chancellor  Ellesmere, 
which  explains  why  he  was  written  to  in  the  matter.  It  is 
pretty  clear  from  these  slight  notices,  that  the  corporation 
left  the  care  of  their  interests  very  much  to  Shakespeare, 
who  had  approved  himself  a  good  hand  at  bringing  things 
to  pass  in  actual  life,  as  well  as  in  ideal.  The  result  was,  an 
order  from  Court  not  only  forbidding  the  inclosure  to  pro¬ 
ceed,  but  peremptorily  commanding  that  some  steps  already 
taken  should  be  forthwith  retraced. 

This  Thomas  Greene  was  an  attorney  of  Stratford.  The 
origin  and  degree  of  his  relationship  to  the  Poet  are  not 
known.  The  parish  register  of  Stratford  records  the  burial 
of  “  Thomas  Greene,  alias  Shakespeare,”  on  the  6th  of 
March,  1590.  Probably  enough,  the  attorney  of  1614  may 
have  been  his  son ;  and  the  relationship  between  the  two 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


45 


families  may  furnish  the  true  key  to  that  remarkable  ac¬ 
quaintance  which  the  Poet  shows  with  the  mysteries  of  the 
law. 

Such  details  of  business  may  not  seem  very  appropriate 
in  a  Life  of  the  greatest  of  poets ;  but  we  have  clear  evi¬ 
dence  that  Shakespeare  took  a  lively  interest  in  them,  and 
was  a  good  hand  at  managing  them.  He  had  learned  by 
experience,  no  doubt,  that  “  money  is  a  good  soldier,  and 
will  on”;  and  that,  “if  money  go  before,  all  ways  do  lie 
open.”  And  the  thing  carries  this  benefit,  if  no  other,  that 
it  tells  us  a  man  may  be  something  of  a  poet,  without  being 
either  above  or  below  the  common  affairs  of  life. 

When,  or  to  whom,  the  Poet  parted  with  his  theatrical  in¬ 
terests,  we  have  no  knowledge  :  that  he  did  part  with  them, 
may  be  probably,  though  not  necessarily,  concluded  from 
his  not  mentioning  them  in  his  will ;  and,  from  the  large 
productiveness  of  such  investments  at  that  time,  he  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  finding  a  purchaser.  A  pretty  careful 
investigation  of  the  matter  has  brought  good  judges  to  the 
conclusion,  that  in  1608  his  income  could  not  have  been  less 
than  400  a-year.  This,  for  all  practical  purposes,  would  be 
equivalent  to  some  $12,000  in  our  time.  The  Rev.  John 
Ward,  who  became  vicar  of  Stratford  in  1662,  left  a  Diary , 
in  which  we  have  the  following :  “  I  have  heard  that  Mr. 
Shakespeare  was  a  natural  wit,  without  any  art  at  all.  He 
frequented  the  plays  all  his  younger  time,  but  in  his  elder 
days  lived  at  Stratford,  and  supplied  the  stage  with  two 
plays  every  year ;  and  for  that  had  an  allowance  so  large, 
that  he  spent  at  the  rate  of  ^i,oo<5  a  year,  as  I  have  heard. 
—  Shakespeare,  Drayton,  and  Ben  Jonson  had  a  merry 
meeting,  and,  it  seems,  drank  too  hard ;  for  Shakespeare 
died  of  a  fever  there  contracted.  —  Remember  to  peruse 
Shakespeare’s  plays,  and  be  versed  in  them,  that  I  may  not 
be  ignorant  in  that  matter.” 


46 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


The  only  point  in  this,  that  calls  for  present  notice,  is  the 
Poet’s  alleged  expenditure.  The  honest  and  cautious  vicar 
did  well  in  adding  to  his  statement  “as  I  have  heard.”  That 
Shakespeare  kept  up  a  liberal,  not  to  say  sumptuous,  estab¬ 
lishment,  and  was  fond  of  entertaining  his  neighbours,  and 
still  more  his  old  associates,  after  a  generous  fashion,  we  can 
well  believe;  but  that  he  had  ^1,000  a-year  to  spend,  or 
would  have  spent  if  he  had,  is  not  credible  :  it  would  have 
been,  for  all  practical  purposes,  equivalent  to  about  $  30,000 
in  our  day  ! 

Francis  Meres,  in  the  work  already  cited,  has  the  follow¬ 
ing  :  “  As  the  soul  of  Euphorbus  was  thought  to  live  in 
Pythagoras,  so  the  sweet  witty  soul  of  Ovid  lives  in  melliflu¬ 
ous  and  honey-tongued  Shakespeare  :  witness  his  Venus  and 
Adonis,  his  Lucrece,  his  sugared  Sonnets  among  his  private 
friends.”  This  ascertains  that  some,  at  least,  of  the  Poet’s 
Sonnets  were  well  known  in  1598,  though  none  of  them  had 
then  been  printed.  Whether  all  of  them  were  written  before 
that  date,  we  have  no  means  of  knowing ;  but  the  proba¬ 
bility  is  that  they  were  written  at  different  times,  as  the 
author  felt  in  the  mood,  or  wished  to  gratify  his  friends  ;  and 
that  portions  of  them  were  copied  in  manuscript  from  time 
to  time,  and  passed  privately  from  hand  to  hand.  At  length 
a  collection  of  them,  to  the  number  of  a  hundred  and  fifty- 
four,  was  made,  and  given  to  the  public  in  1609,  by  a  book¬ 
seller  who  probably  did  not  get  them  from  the  Poet  himself. 

Of  the  thirty- eight  plays  ascribed  to  Shakespeare,  twenty- 
seven  have  already  been  mentioned.  Of  the  eleven  still  to 
be  accounted  for,  King  Lear  was  acted  at  Whitehall  before 
the  Court  in  December,  1606,  and  two  editions  of  it  were 
issued  in  1608.  Pericles,  Prince  of  Tyre,  and  Antony  and 
Cleopatra  were  entered  at  the  Stationers’  in  1608,  and  Peri¬ 
cles  was  published  the  next  year.  Macbeth  was  played  at 
the  Globe  theatre  in  April,  1610,  but  perhaps  written  some 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


47 


time  before.  Cymbeline  and  The  Winter's  Tale  were  per¬ 
formed  at  the  Globe  in  the  Spring  of  161 1 ;  and  King  Henry 
the  Eighth  is  not  heard  of  till  the  burning  of  that  theatre  in 
1613,  when  it  is  described  as  “  a  new  play.”  Of  Coriolanus 
and  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  we  have  no  notice  whatever 
till  after  the  Poet’s  death ;  while  of  Othello  and  The  Tempest 
we  have  no  well-authenticated  notices  during  his  life  ;  though 
there  is  a  record,  once  held  authentic,  noting  them  to  have 
been  acted  at  the  Court,  the  former  in  November,  1604,  the 
latter  in  November,  1611  :  but  that  record,  as  in  the  case  of 
Measure  for  Measure ,  has  lately  been  pronounced  spurious 
by  the  highest  authority. 

Some  question  has  been  made  whether  Shakespeare  were 
a  member  of  the  celebrated  convivial  club  established  by  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  and  which  held  its  sessions  at  the  Mermaid-  . 
tavern.  We  have  nothing  that  directly  certifies  his  member¬ 
ship  of  that  choice  institution ;  but  there  are  several  things 
inferring  it  so  strongly  as  to  leave  no  reasonable  doubt  on 
the  subject.  His  conversations  certainly  ran  in  that  circle 
of  wits,  some  of  whom  are  directly  known  to  have  belonged 
to  it ;  and  among  them  all  there  was  not  one  whose  then 
acknowledged  merits  gave  him  a  better  title  to  its  privileges. 

It  does  not  indeed  necessarily  follow  from  his  facility  and 
plenipotence  of  wit  in  writing,  that  he  could  shine  at  those 
extempore  “  flashes  of  merriment  that  were  wont  to  set  the 
table  on  a  roar.”  But,  besides  the  natural  inference  that 
way,  we  have  the  statement  of  honest  old  Aubrey,  that  “  he 
was  very  good  company,  and  of  a  very  ready  and  pleasant 
smooth  wit.”  Francis  Beaumont,  who  was  a  prominent  mem¬ 
ber  of  that  jovial  senate,  and  to  whom  Shirley  applies  the 
fine  hyperbolism  that  “  he  talked  a  comedy,”  was  born  in 
1586,  and  died  in  1615.  I  cannot  doubt  that  he  had  our 
Poet,  among  others,  in  his  eye,  when  he  wrote  those  cele¬ 
brated  lines  to  Ben  Jonson  : 


48 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


Methinks  the  little  wit  I  had  is  lost 

Since  I  saw  you ;  for  wit  is  like  a  rest 

Held  up  at  tennis,  which  men  do  the  best 

With  the  best  gamesters.  What  things  have  we  seen 

Done  at  the  Mermaid!  heard  words  that  have  been 

So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtile  flame, 

As  if  that  every  one  from  whence  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest, 

And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life. 

In  further  token  of  Shakespeare’s  having  belonged  to  this 
merry  parliament  of  genius,  I  must  quote  from  Dr.  Thomas 
Fuller,  who,  though  not  born  till  1608,  was  acquainted  with 
some  of  the  old  Mermaid  wits.  In  his  Worthies  of  War- 
wickshi?'e,  he  winds  up  his  account  of  the  Poet  thus  :  “  Many 
were  the  wit-combats  betwixt  him  and  Ben  Jonson ;  which 
two  I  behold  like  a  Spanish  great  galleon  and  an  English 
man-of-war.  Master  Jonson,  like  the  former,  was  built  far 
higher  in  learning ;  solid,  but  slow,  in  his  performances  : 
Shakespeare,  with  the  English  man-of-war,  lesser  in  bulk, 
but  lighter  in  sailing,  could  turn  with  all  tides,  tack  about, 
and  take  advantage  of  all  winds,  by  the  quickness  of  his  wit 
and  invention.” 

It  would  seem  that  after  the  year  1609,  or  thereabouts,  the 
Poet’s  reputation  did  not  mount  any  higher  during  his  life. 
A  new  generation  of  dramatists  was  then  rising  into  favour, 
who,  with  some  excellences  derived  from  him,  united  gross 
vices  of  their  own,  which  however  were  well  adapted  to  cap¬ 
tivate  the  popular  mind.  Moreover,  King  James  himself, 
notwithstanding  his  liberality  of  patronage,  was  essentially  a 
man  of  loose  morals  and  low  tastes ;  and  his  taking  to  Shake¬ 
speare  at  first  probably  grew  more  from  the  public  voice,  or 
perhaps  from  Southampton’s  influence,  than  from  his  own 
preference.  Before  the  Poet’s  death,  we  may  trace  the  be¬ 
ginnings  of  that  corruption  which,  rather  stimulated  than 
discouraged  by  Puritan  bigotry  and  fanaticism,  reached  its 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


49 


height  some  seventy  years  later ;  though  its  course  was  for 
a  while  retarded  by  King  Charles  the  First,  who,  whatever 
else  may  be  said  of  him,  was  unquestionably  a  man  of  as 
high  and  elegant  tastes  in  literature  and  art  as  England  could 
boast  of  in  his  time. 

Shakespeare,  however,  was  by  no  means  so  little  appre¬ 
ciated  in  his  time  as  later  generations  have  mainly  supposed. 
No  man  of  that  age  was  held  in  higher  regard  for  his  intel¬ 
lectual  gifts ;  none  drew  forth  more  or  stronger  tributes  of 
applause.  Kings,  princes,  lords,  gentlemen,  and,  what  is 
still  better,  common  people,  all  united  in  paying  homage  to 
his  transcendent  genius.  The  noble  lines,  already  referred 
to,  of  Ben  Jonson — than  whom  few  men,  perhaps  none, 
ever  knew  better  how  to  judge  and  how  to  write  on  such  a 
theme  —  indicate  how  he  struck  the  scholarship  of  the  age. 
And  from  the  scattered  notices  of  his  contemporaries  we  get, 
withal,  a  very  complete  and  very  exalted  idea  of  his  personal 
character  as  a  man ;  although,  to  be  sure,  they  yield  us  few 
facts  in  regard  to  his  personal  history  or  his  actual  course 
of  life.  How  dearly  he  was  held  by  those  who  knew  him 
best,  is  well  shown  by  a  passage  of  Ben  Jonson,  written  long 
after  the  Poet’s  death,  and  not  published  till  1640.  Honest 
Ben  had  been  charged  with  malevolence  towards  him,  and 
he  repelled  the  charge  thus :  “  I  loved  the  man,  and  do 
honour  his  memory,  on  this  side  idolatry,  as  much  as  any. 
He  was  indeed  honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free  nature ;  had 
an  excellent  fantasy,  brave  notions,  and  gentle  expressions.” 
And  we  have  similar  testimony  from  John  Heminge  and 
Henry  Condell,  the  Poet’s  friends  and  fellow-actors,  and  the 
Editors  of  the  first  folio,  in  the  dedication  of  which  they  pro¬ 
fess  to  have  collected  and  published  the  plays,  “  without 
ambition  of  self-profit  or  fame ;  only  to  keep  the  memory 
of  so  worthy  a  friend  and  fellow  alive,  as  was  our  Shake¬ 
speare.” 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE, 


50 

A  few  particulars  respecting  the  Poet's  family  will  bring 
as  to  the  closing  passage  of  his  life.  We  have  already  seen 
that  his  father  died  in  September,  1601,  and  his  mother  just 
about  seven  years  after.  There  seems  little  room  for  doubt 
that  their  latter  years  were  passed  under  his  roof.  Joan,  his 
only  surviving  sister,  born  in  April,  1569,  was  married  to 
William  Hart,  of  Stratford,  a  hatter.  The  marriage  prob¬ 
ably  took  place  out  of  Stratford,  as  there  is  no  note  of  it 
in  the  register.  Their  first  child  was  christened  William, 
August  28,  1600.  Three  other  children,  Mary,  Thomas, 
and  Michael,  were  born  to  them,  respectively,  in  1603,  1605, 
and  1608.  Mary  Hart  died  in  December,  1607,  and  her 
father  was  buried  April  17,  1616,  a  few  days  before  the 
Poet.  The  three  surviving  children  were  kindly  remem¬ 
bered  in  their  uncle’s  will,  as  was  also  their  mother. 

The  Poet’s  brother  Gilbert  lived  at  Stratford,  and  appears 
to  have  taken  some  charge  of  his  home  affairs.  It  is  not 
known  whether  he  were  married ;  but  the  Stratford  register 
enters  the  burial,  February  3,  1612,  of  “  Gilbert  Shakespeare, 
adoles cens  ”  /  who  may  have  been  his  son.  We  have  a  tra¬ 
dition  that  one  of  the  Poet’s  brothers  lived  to  a  great  age. 
If  the  tradition  be  true,  it  must,  as  will  presently  appear, 
refer  to  Gilbert,  who  was  born  in  1566.  Richard,  the  next 
brother,  born  in  1574,  was  buried  at  Stratford  February  4, 
1613.  Nothing  further  is  heard  of  him.  It  is  tolerably  cer¬ 
tain  that  Edmund,  the  youngest  brother,  born  in  1580,  be¬ 
came  a  player.  The  register  of  St.  Saviour’s  parish,  in  which 
the  Globe  theatre  stood,  records  the  burial  of  “Edmund 
Shakespeare,  a  player,”  on  the  31st  of  December,  1607.  In 
the  low  estate  of  his  father’s  affairs,  he  had  most  likely  fol¬ 
lowed  his  brother’s  fortune.  Nothing  more  is  known  of  him. 
—  On  the  1 6th  of  October,  1608,  the  Poet  stood  sponsor  at 
the  christening,  in  Stratford,  of  a  boy  named  William  Walker, 
who  is  also  remembered  in  his  will. 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


51 


On  the  5th  of  June,  1607,  the  Poet’s  eldest  daughter, 
Susanna,  then  in  her  twenty-fifth  year,  was  married  to  Mr. 
John  Hall,  of  Stratford,  a  practising  physician  of  good  stand¬ 
ing.  The  February  following,  Shakespeare  became  a  grand¬ 
father;  Elizabeth,  the  first  and  only  child  of  John  and 
Susanna  Hall,  being  baptized  on  the  21st  of  that  month. 
It  is  supposed,  and  with  good  reason,  that  Dr.  Hall  and  his 
wife  lived  in  the  same  house  with  the  Poet :  she  was  evi¬ 
dently  deep  in  her  father’s  heart ;  she  is  said  to  have  had 
something  of  his  genius  and  temper ;  the  house  was  large 
enough  for  them  all ;  nor  are  there  wanting  signs  of  entire 
affection  between  Mrs.  Hall  and  her  mother.  Add  to  all 
this  the  Poet’s  manifest  fondness  for  children,  and  his  gentle 
and  affable  disposition,  and  we  have  the  elements  of  a  happy 
family  and  a  cheerful  home,  such  as  might  well  render  a 
good-natured  man  impatient  of  the  stage.  Of  the  moral  and 
religious  spirit  and  tenour  of  domestic  life  at  New  Place,  we 
are  not  allowed  to  know  :  at  a  later  period,  the  Shakespeares 
seem  to  have  been  not  a  little  distinguished  for  works  of 
piety  and  charity.  The  chamberlain’s  accounts  show  the 
curious  entry,  in  1614,  of  is.  8d.  “for  one  quart  of  sack  and 
one  quart  of  claret  wine,  given  to  a  preacher  at  the  New 
Place.”  The  worshipful  corporation  of  Stratford  seem  to 
have  been  at  this  time  rather  addicted  to  Puritanism,  as  they 
could  not  endure  plays  within  their  jurisdiction :  why  they 
should  thus  have  volunteered  a  part  towards  entertaining  the 
preacher,  if  he  were  not  minded  like  them,  and  why  they 
should  have  suffered  him  to  put  up  at  New  Place,  if  he 
were,  are  matters  about  which  we  can  only  speculate. 

On  the  10th  of  February,  1616,  Shakespeare  saw  his 
youngest  daughter,  Judith,  married  to  Thomas  Quiney,  of 
Stratford,  a  vintner  and  wine-merchant.  He  was  a  son  of 
the  Richard  Quiney  who  requested  from  the  Poet  a  loan  of 
■Po3°  in  1598,  and  who  died  in  May,  1602,  being  at  that  time 


52 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


High-Bailiff  of  Stratford.  From  the  way  Shakespeare  men¬ 
tions  his  daughter’s  marriage-portion  in  his  will,  it  is  evident 
that  he  gave  his  sanction  to  the  match.  Which  may  be  cited 
as  arguing  that  he  had  not  himself  experienced  any  such 
evils,  as  some  have  been  fond  of  alleging,  from  the  woman 
being  older  than  the  man ;  for  his  daughter  had  four  years 
the  start  of  her  husband ;  she  being  at  the  time  of  her  mar¬ 
riage  thirty-one,  and  he  twenty-seven. 

Shakespeare  was  still  in  the  meridian  of  life.  There  was 
no  special  cause,  that  we  know  of,  why  he  might  not  live 
many  years  longer.  It  were  vain  to  conjecture  what  he 
would  have  done,  had  more  years  been  given  him ;  possibly, 
instead  of  augmenting  his  legacy  to  us,  he  would  have  recalled 
and  suppressed  more  or  less  of  what  he  had  written  as  our 
inheritance.  For  the  last  two  or  three  years,  at  least,  he 
seems  to  have  left  his  pen  unused ;  as  if,  his  own  ends  once 
achieved,  he  set  no  value  on  that  mighty  sceptre  with  which 
he  since  sways  so  large  a  portion  of  mankind.  That  the 
motives  and  ambitions  of  authorship  had  little  to  do  in  the 
generation  of  his  works,  is  evident  from  the  serene  careless¬ 
ness  with  which  he  left  them  to  shift  for  themselves  ;  tossing 
those  wonderful  treasures  from  him  as  if  he  thought  them 
good  for  nothing  but  to  serve  the  hour. 

It  was  in  and  for  the  theatre  that  his  multitudinous  genius 
was  developed,  and  his  works  produced ;  there  fortune,  or 
rather  Providence,  had  cast  his  lot.  Doubtless  it  was  his 
nature,  in  whatever  he  undertook,  to  do  his  best.  As  an 
honest  and  true  man,  he  would,  if  possible,  make  the  temple 
of  the  Drama  a  noble,  a  beautiful,  and  glorious  place ;  and 
it  was  while  working  quietly  and  unobtrusively  in  furtherance 
of  this  end  —  building  better  than  he  knew  —  that  he  ap¬ 
proved  himself  the  greatest,  wisest,  sweetest  of  men. 

William  Shakespeare  departed  this  life  on  the  23d  of 
April,  1616.  Two  days  after,  his  remains  were  buried  be- 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  Of  ILLINOIS 


EXTERIOR  OF  CHURCH  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  Page  53. 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


53 


ueath  the  chancel  of  Trinity  Church,  in  Stratford.  The 
burial  took  place  on  the  day  before  the  anniversary  of  his 
baptism ;  and  it  has  been  commonly  believed  that  his  death 
fell  on  the  anniversary  of  his  birth.  If  so,  he  had  just  entered 
his  fifty-third  year. 

Thus  much,  or  rather  thus  little,  is  about  all  that  we  are 
permitted  to  know  touching  the  personal  history  of,  proba¬ 
bly,  the  greatest  intellect  that  ever  appeared  in  our  world. 
The  materials  for  a  biography  of  Shakespeare  are  scanty 
indeed,  and,  withal,  rather  dry.  Nevertheless,  there  is 
enough,  I  think,  to  show,  that  in  all  the  common  dealings 
of  life  he  was  eminently  gentle,  candid,  upright,  and  ju¬ 
dicious  ;  open-hearted,  genial,  and  sweet,  in  his  social  inter¬ 
courses  ;  among  his  companions  and  friends,  full  of  playful 
wit  and  sprightly  grace  ;  kind  to  the  faults  of  others,  severe 
to  his  own ;  quick  to  discern  and  acknowledge  merit  in 
another,  modest  and  slow  of  finding  it  in  himself :  while,  in 
the  smooth  and  happy  marriage,  which  he  seems  to  have 
realized,  of  the  highest  poetry  and  art  with  systematic  and 
successful  prudence  in  business  affairs,  we  have  an  example 
of  compact  and  well-rounded  practical  manhood,  such  as 
may  justly  engage  our  admiration  and  respect. 

As  to  the  immediate  cause  or  occasion  of  the  Poet’s  death, 
we  have  no  information  beyond  what  has  been  quoted  from 
Ward.  Stratford  seems  to  have  been  rather  noted  in  those 
days  for  bad  drainage.  Garrick  tells  us  that  even  in  his 
time  it  was  “the  most  dirty,  unseemly,  ill-paved,  wretched 
looking  town  in  all  Britain.”  Epidemics  were  frequent  there 
in  the  Poet’s  time ;  and  not  long  after  his  death  we  hear, 
from  Dr.  Hall,  of  “  the  new  fever,”  which  “invaded  many” 
of  the  Stratford  people :  he  also  mentions,  though  without 
stating  the  time,  his  having  cured  Michael  Drayton,  “  an  ex¬ 
cellent  poet,”  of  a  tertian  ague.  Perhaps  Drayton  was  on  a 
visit  to  his  friend  Shakespeare  at  the  time ;  but,  as  he  also 


54 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


was  a  Warwickshire  man,  this  cannot  be  inferred  with  cer¬ 
tainty.  The  Poet’s  will  was  first  dated  the  25th  of  January, 
1616,  but  afterward  March  was  substituted  for  January.  It 
appears  also  that  his  will  must  have  been  drawn  up  before 
the  marriage  of  his  daughter  Judith,  as  he  speaks  of  her  only 
by  her  maiden  name.  It  seems  not  unlikely  that,  being  in 
January  doubtfully  ill,  he  may  have  prepared  the  document ; 
then,  finding  himself  getting  better,  he  may  have  over-in¬ 
dulged  in  some  festivity  with  his  friends,  which  brought  on  a 
fatal  relapse.  The  Poet,  it  is  true,  begins  his  will  by  stating 
that  he  makes  it  “in  perfect  health  and  memory”  :  this  may 
have  been  mere  matter  of  form,  or  such  may  have  been 
really  the  case  at  the  time  of  writing.  But  it  would  seem  to 
have  been  otherwise  at  the  time  of  the  execution ;  for  sev¬ 
eral  good  judges  have  remarked  that  the  Poet’s  signatures, 
of  which  there  are  three,  in  as  many  different  places  of  the 
will,  appear  written  with  an  infirm  and  unsteady  hand,  as  if 
his  energies  were  shattered  by  disease. 

During  his  sickness,  the  Poet  was  most  likely  attended  by 
his  son-in-law.  Dr.  Hall  was  evidently  a  man  of  consider¬ 
able  science  and  skill  in  his  profession.  This  appears  from 
certain  memoranda  which  he  left,  of  cases  that  occurred  in 
his  practice.  The  notes  were  written  in  Latin,  but  were 
translated  from  his  manuscript,  and  published  by  Jonas 
Cooke  in  1657,  with  the  title  of  “Select  Observations  on 
English  Bodies.”  As  Dr.  Hall  did  not  begin  to  make  notes 
of  his  practice  till  1617,  he  furnishes  no  information  touch¬ 
ing  the  Poet. 

A  copy  of  the  will,  as  it  has  been  given  with  great  care  by 
Mr.  Halliwell  from  the  original,  may  be  found  at  the  end 
of  this  Life ;  so  that  there  is  no  need  of  presenting  any 
analysis  of  its  contents  here.  One  item,  however,  must  not 
pass  unnoticed  :  “  I  give  unto  my  wife  the  second  best  bed, 
with  the  furniture.”  As  this  is  the  only  mention  made  of 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


55 


her,  the  circumstance  was  for  a  long  time  regarded  as  be¬ 
traying  a  strange  indifference,  or  something  worse,  on  the 
testator’s  part  towards  his  wife.  And  on  this  has  hung  the 
main  argument  that  the  union  was  not  a  happy  one.  We 
owe  to  Mr.  Knight  an  explanation  of  the  matter ;  which  is 
so  simple  and  decisive,  that  we  can  only  wonder  it  was  not 
hit  upon  before.  Shakespeare’s  property  was  mostly  free¬ 
hold  ;  and  in  all  this  the  widow  had  what  is  called  right  of 
dower  fully  secured  to  her  by  the  ordinary  operation  of  Eng¬ 
lish  law.  As  for  “  the  second  best  bed,”  it  was  doubtless 
the  very  thing  which  a  loving  and  beloved  wife  would  be 
sure  to  prize  above  any  other  article  of  furniture  in  the 
establishment. 

In  some  verses  by  Leonard  Digges,  prefixed  to  the  folio 
of  1623,  allusion  is  made  to  Shakespeare’s  “ Stratford  monu¬ 
ment”;  which  shows  that  the  monument  had  been  placed 
in  the  church  before  that  date.  It  represents  the  Poet  with 
a  cushion  before  him,  a  pen  in  his  right  hand,  and  his  left 
resting  on  a  scroll.  “  The  bust,”  says  Wivell,  “  is  fixed 
under  an  arch,  between  two  Corinthian  columns  of  black 
marble,  with  gilded  bases  and  capitals,  supporting  the  en¬ 
tablature  ;  above  which,  and  surmounted  by  a  death’s-head, 
are  carved  his  arms ;  on  each  side  is  a  small  figure  in  a  sit¬ 
ting  posture  ;  one  holding  in  his  left  hand  a  spade,  and  the 
other,  whose  eyes  are  closed,  with  an  inverted  torch  in  his 
left  hand,  the  right  resting  upon  a  skull,  as  symbols  of  mor¬ 
tality.”  As  originally  coloured,  the  eyes  were  a  light  hazel, 
the  hair  auburn,  the  dress  a  scarlet  doublet,  and  a  loose 
black  gown  without  sleeves  thrown  over  it.  In  1748,  the 
colours  were  carefully  restored ;  but  in  1793,  Malone,  with 
strange  taste,  had  the  whole  painted  white  by  a  common 
house-painter.  Dugdale  informs  us  that  the  monument  was 
the  work  of  Gerard  Johnson,  an  eminent  sculptor  of  that 
period.  It  was  doubtless  done  at  the  instance  and  cost  of 


56 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


Dr.  Hall  and  his  wife.  A  tablet  below  the  bust  has  the  fol¬ 
lowing  inscription  : 

Judicio  Pylurn,  genio  Socratem,  arte  Maronem, 

Terra  tegit,  populus  mseret,  Olympus  habet. 

Stay,  Passenger,  why  go’st  thou  by  so  fast  ? 

Read,  if  thou  canst,  whom  envious  Death  hath  placed 
Within  this  monument ;  Shakespeare,  with  whom 
Quick  nature  died ;  whose  name  doth  deck  this  tomb 
Far  more  than  cost ;  sith  all  that  he  hath  writ 
Leaves  living  Art  but  page  to  serve  his  wit. 

Obiit  Anno  Domini  161 6, 
HLtatis  53,  die  23  April. 

As  to  the  lines  which  tradition  ascribes  to  the  Poet  as 
written  for  his  own  tomb-stone,  there  is  very  little  likelihood 
that  he  had  any  thing  to  do  with  them.  The  earliest  that 
we  hear  of  them  is  in  the  letter  written  by  Dowdall  in  1693  : 
“  Near  the  wall  where  his  monument  is  erected  lieth  a  plain 
freestone,  underneath  which  his  body  is  buried,  with  this 
epitaph,  made  by  himself  a  little  before  his  death : 

Good  friend,  for  Jesus’  sake  forbear 
To  dig  the  dust  inclosed  here : 

Blest  be  the  man  that  spares  these  stones, 

And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones ! 

The  writer  adds,  “  Not  one,  for  fear  of  the  curse  above-said, 
dare  touch  his  grave-stone,  though  his  wife  and  daughters 
did  earnestly  desire  to  be  laid  in  the  same  grave  with  him.” 
Such  is  indeed  the  inscription  on  a  flat  stone  covering  the 
spot  where  the  Poet’s  remains  are  supposed  to  lie  ;  but  there 
is  no  name,  nor  any  thing  whatever  to  identify  the  lines  as 
written  either  by  Shakespeare  or  for  him. 

The  mortal  remains  of  Anne  Shakespeare  were  laid  beside 
those  of  her  husband,  August  8,  1623.  A  worthy  memorial 
covers  the  spot,  whereon  we  trace  the  fitting  language  of  a 
daughter’s  love,  paying  a  warm  tribute  to  the  religious  char- 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


57 


acter  of  her  who  was  gone,  and  clearly  inferring  that  she  had 
“  as  much  of  virtue  as  could  die.”  It  is  a  brass  plate  set  in 
a  stone,  and  inscribed  as  follows  : 

“  Here  lieth  interred  the  body  of  Anne,  wife  of  William 
Shakespeare,  who  departed  this  life  the  6th  day  of  August, 
1623,  being  of  the  age  of  67  years.” 

Ubera  tu,  mater,  tu  lac  vitamque  dedisti, 

Vae  mihi !  pro  tanto  munere  saxa  dabo. 

Quam  mallem  amoveat  lapidem  bonus  angelus  ore, 

Exeat  ut  Christi  corpus  imago  tua : 

Sed  nil  vota  valent ;  venias  cito,  Christe,  resurget, 

Clausa  licet  tumulo  mater,  et  astra  petet. 

Another  precious  inscription  in  the  chancel  of  Stratford 
church  was  partly  erased  many  years  ago  to  make  room  for 
one  to  Richard  Watts,  who  died  in  1707.  Fortunately  the 
lines  had  been  preserved  by  Dugdale.  Through  the  taste 
and  liberality  of  the  Rev.  W.  Harness,  the  original  inscrip¬ 
tion  has  been  recently  restored,  thus : 

“  Here  lieth  the  body  of  Susanna,  Wife  to  John  Hall, 
Gent. ;  the  daughter  of  William  Shakespeare,  Gent.  She 
deceased  the  nth  of  July,  Anno  1649,  aged  66. 

Witty  above  her  sex,  but  that’s  not  all ; 

Wise  to  salvation  was  good  Mistress  Hall : 

Something  of  Shakespeare  was  in  that ;  but  this 
Wholly  of  Him  with  whom  she’s  now  in  bliss. 

Then,  passenger,  hast  ne’er  a  tear 
To  weep  with  her  that  wept  with  all  ? 

That  wept,  yet  set  herself  to  cheer 
Them  up  with  comforts  cordial. 

Her  love  shall  live,  her  mercy  spread, 

When  thou  hast  ne’er  a  tear  to  shed  * 


*  Close  beside  this  inscription  is  one  to  her  husband,  as  follows :  “  Here 
lieth  the  body  of  John  Hall,  Gent.  He  married  Susanna,  the  daughter  and 
coheir  of  Will.  Shakespeare,  Gent.  He  deceased  November  25,  Anno  1635, 
aged  60.”  To  this  are  subjoined  the  following  verses  : 


58 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


The  first-born  of  Thomas  and  Judith  Quiney  was  christened 
Shakespeare  on  the  23d  of  November,  just  seven  months 
after  the  death  of  his  grandfather.  He  was  buried  May  8, 
1617.  He  was  followed  by  two  other  children:  Richard, 
baptized  February  9,  1618,  and  buried  February  26,  1639; 
and  Thomas,  baptized  January  23,  1620,  and  buried  January 
28,  1639.  Their  mother  was  buried  the  9th  of  February, 
1662,  having  lived  to  the  age  of  77  years.  The  time  of  her 
husband’s  death  is  not  known. 

The  Poet’s  grand-daughter,  Elizabeth  Hall,  was  married 
to  Mr.  Thomas  Nash  on  the  26th  of  April,  1626,  who  died 
April  4,  1647.  On  the  5th  of  June,  1649,  s^ie  was  married 
again  to  Mr.  John  Barnard,  who  was  knighted  after  the  Res¬ 
toration.  Lady  Barnard  died  childless  in  1670,  and  was 
buried  in  Abingdon  with  the  family  of  Sir  John.  After  her 
decease,  the  nearest  relatives  of  the  Poet  living  were  the 
descendants  of  his  sister,  Joan  Hart.  At  the  time  of  her 
brother’s  death,  Mrs.  Hart  was  living  in  one  of  his  Stratford 
houses,  which,  with  the  appurtenances,  was  by  his  will  se¬ 
cured  to  her  use  for  life  at  a  nominal  rent  of  i2r/.  She  was 
buried  on  the  4th  of  November,  1646.  Her  descendants, 
bearing  the  name  of  Hart,  have  continued  down  to  our 
own  time,  but,  it  is  said,  “not  in  a  position  we  can  con¬ 
template  with  satisfaction.” 

The  following  from  Dyce  may  fitly  close  this  account : 
“  The  bust  at  Stratford,  and  the  engraving  by  Martin  Droe- 
shout  on  the  title-page  of  the  first  folio,  may  be  considered 


Hallius  hie  situs  est,  medica  celeberrimus  arte, 
Expectans  regni  gaudia  laeta  Dei. 

Dignus  erat  mentis,  qui  Nestora  vinceret  annis. 
In  terris  omnes,  sed  rapit  sequa  dies. 

Ne  tumulo  quid  desit,  adest  fidessima  conjux, 

Et  vitae  comitem  nunc  quoque  mortis  habet. 


The  parish  register  has  the  following  entry  of  burial:  “1635.  Nov.  26, 
Johannes  Hall,  medicus  peritissimus.” 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


59 


as  the  best-authenticated  likenesses  of  the  Poet.  The  former 
exhibits  him  in  the  act  of  composition,  and  enjoying,  as  it 
were,  the  richness  of  his  own  conceptions ;  the  latter  pre¬ 
sents  him  somewhat  younger  and  thinner,  and  with  a  deeply 
thoughtful  air  :  but  a  general  resemblance  may  be  traced 
between  them.  The  truthfulness  of  the  engraving  is  attested 
by  Ben  Jonson  in  the  verses  which  accompany  it,  and  which 
we  are  almost  bound  to  accept  as  the  sincere  expression  of 
his  opinion  ”  : 

This  figure,  that  thou  here  see’st  put, 

It  was  for  gentle  Shakespeare  cut ; 

Wherein  the  graver  had  a  strife 
With  Nature,  to  out-do  the  life. 

O,  could  he  but  have  drawn  his  wit 
As  well  in  brass  as  he  hath  hit 
His  face,  the  print  would  then  surpass 
All  that  was  ever  writ  in  brass  : 

But,  since  he  cannot,  reader,  look 
Not  on  his  picture,  but  his  book. 


6g 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


SHAKESPEARE’S  WILL, 

IN  THE  PREROGATIVE  OFFICE,  LONDON. 


Vicesimo  quinto  die  Martii,  anno  regni  domini  nostri  Jacobi, 
nunc  regis  Anglias,  &c.  decimo  quarto,  et  Scotiae  xlix0,  an- 
noque  Domini  1616. 

T.  Wmi  Shakespeare. 


In  the  name  of  God,  amen  !  I,  William  Shakespeare,  ol 
Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  the  county  of  Warwick,  gent.,  in  per¬ 
fect  health  and  memory,  God  be  praised,  do  make  and  ordain 
this  my  last  will  and  testament  in  manner  and  form  following ; 
that  is  to  say,  First,  I  commend  my  soul  into  the  hands  of  God 
my  Creator,  hoping  and  assuredly  believing,  through  the  only 
merits  of  Jesus  Christ  my  Saviour,  to  be  made  partaker  of  life 
everlasting,  and  my  body  to  the  earth  whereof  it  is  made.  Item, 
I  give  and  bequeath  unto  my  daughter  Judith  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  of  lawful  English  money,  to  be  paid  unto  her  in  man¬ 
ner  and  form  following ;  that  is  to  say,  one  hundred  pounds  in 
discharge  of  her  marriage  portion  within  one  year  after  my  de¬ 
cease,  with  consideration  after  the  rate  of  two  shillings  in  the 
pound  for  so  long  time  as  the  same  shall  be  unpaid  unto  her 
after  my  decease,  and  the  fifty  pounds  residue  thereof  upon  her 
surrendering  of,  or  giving  of  such  sufficient  security  as  the 
overseers  of  this  my  will  shall  like  of,  to  surrender  or  grant 
all  her  estate  and  right  that  shall  descend  or  come  unto  her 
after  my  decease,  or  that  she  now  hath,  of,  in,  or  to,  one 
copyhold  tenement,  with  the  appurtenances,  lying  and  being  in 
Stratford-upon-Avon  aforesaid  in  the  said  county  of  Warwick, 
being  parcel  or  holden  of  the  manor  of  Rowington,  unto  my 
daughter  Susanna  Hall  and  her  Leirs  for  ever.  Item,  I  give  and 
bequeath  unto  my  said  daughter  Judith  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  more,  if  she  or  any  issue  of  her  body  be  living  at  the 
end  of  three  years  next  ensuing  the  day  of  the  date  of  this  my 


CHURCH  IN  STRATFORD-ON-AVON,  WITH 
TOMB  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


GOOD  FREND  FOR  IESVS  SAKE  FORBEARE 
TO  DIGG  THE  DVST  ENCLOASED  HEARE  : 
BLESTE  BE  YE  MAN  YT  SPARES  THES  STONES, 
AND  CURST  BE  HE  YT  MOVES  MY  BONES. 


library 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILUNQI' 


shakespeare5s  will, 


6i 


will,  during  which  time  my  executors  are  to  pay  her  consideration 
from  my  decease  according  to  the  rate  aforesaid ;  and  if  she  die 
within  the  said  term  without  issue  of  her  body,  then  my  will  is, 
and  I  do  give  and  bequeath  one  hundred  pounds  thereof  to  my 
niece  Elizabeth  Hall,  and  the  ^50  to  be  set  forth  by  my  execu- 
tors  during  the  life  of  my  sister  Joan  Hart,  and  the  use  and  profit 
thereof  coming  shall  be  paid  to  my  said  sister  Joan,  and  after  her 
decease  the  said  ^50  shall  remain  amongst  the  children  of  my 
said  sister,  equally  to  be  divided  amongst  them ;  but  if  my  said 
daughter  Judith  be  living  at  the  end  of  the  said  three  years,  or 
any  issue  of  her  body,  then  my  will  is  and  so  I  devise  and  be¬ 
queath  the  said  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  to  be  set  out  by  my 
executors  and  overseers  for  the  best  benefit  of  her  and  her 
issue,  and  the  stock  not  to  be  paid  unto  her  so  long  as  she  shall 
be  married  and  covert  baron ;  but  my  will  is,  that  she  shall  have 
the  consideration  yearly  paid  unto  her  during  her  life,  and,  after 
her  decease,  the  said  stock  and  consideration  to  be  paid  to  her 
children,  if  she  have  any,  and  if  not,  to  her  executors  or  as¬ 
signs,  she  living  the  said  term  after  my  decease,  Provided  that 
if  such  husband  as  she  shall  at  the  end  of  the  said  three  years 
be  married  unto,  or  at  any  after,  do  sufficiently  assure  unto  her 
and  the  issue  of  her  body  lands  answerable  to  the  portion  by 
this  my  will  given  unto  her,  and  to  be  adjudged  so  by  my  execu¬ 
tors  and  overseers,  then  my  will  is,  that  the  said  ^150  shall  be 
paid  to  such  husband  as  shall  make  such  assurance,  to  his  own 
use.  Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  my  said  sister  Joan  £ 20 
and  all  my  wearing  apparel,  to  be  paid  and  delivered  within  one 
year  after  my  decease ;  and  I  do  will  and  devise  unto  her  the 
house  with  the  appurtenances  in  Stratford,  wherein  she  dwelleth, 
for  her  natural  life,  under  the  yearly  rent  of  12  d.  Item,  I  give 

and  bequeath  unto  her  three  sons,  William  Hart, - Hart,  and 

Michael  Hart,  five  pounds  a-piece,  to  be  paid  within  one  year 
after  my  decease.  Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  the  said  Eliza¬ 
beth  Hall  all  my  plate,  except  my  broad  silver  and  gilt  bowl,  that 
I  now  have  at  the  date  of  this  my  will.  Item,  I  give  and  bequeath 
unto  the  poor  of  Stratford  aforesaid  ten  pounds  ;  to  Mr.  Thomas 
Combe  my  sword  ;  to  Thomas  Russell,  esquire,  five  pounds  ;  and 
to  Francis  Collins,  of  the  borough  of  Warwick  in  the  county  of 


62 


LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


Warwick,  gentleman,  thirteen  pounds,  six  shillings,  and  eight 
pence,  to  be  paid  within  one  year  after  my  decease,  Item,  I 
give  and  bequeath  to  Hamlett  Sadler  2 6s.  8d.  to  buy  him  a  ring ; 
to  William  Raynolds,  gent.,  26s.  8 d.,  to  buy  him  a  ring;  to  my 
godson  Wiliam  Walker,  20s.  in  gold;  to  Anthony  Nash,  gent., 
26^.  8 d. ;  and  to  Mr.  John  Nash,  2 6s.  8d. ;  and  to  my  fellows 
John  Heminge,  Richard  Burbage,  and  Henry  Condell,  26^.  8 d. 
a-piece  to  buy  them  rings.  Item,  I  give,  will,  bequeath,  and 
devise,  unto  my  daughter  Susanna  Hall,  for  better  enabling  of 
her  to  perform  this  my  will,  and  towards  the  performance  thereof, 
all  that  capital  messuage  or  tenement  with  the  appurtenances,  in 
Stratford  aforesaid,  called  the  New  Place,  wherein  I  now  dwell, 
and  two  messuages  or  tenements  with  the  appurtenances,  situate, 
lying,  and  being  in  Henley-Street,  within  the  borough  of  Strat¬ 
ford  aforesaid  ;  and  all  my  barns,  stables,  orchards,  gardens,  lands, 
tenements,  and  hereditaments  whatsoever,  situate,  lying,  and  be¬ 
ing,  or  to  be  had,  received,  perceived,  or  taken,  within  the  towns, 
hamlets,  villages,  fields,  and  grounds,  of  Stratford-upon-Avon, 
Old  Stratford,  Bishopton,  and  Welcombe,  or  in  any  of  them  in  the 
said  county  of  Warwick.  And  also  all  that  messuage  or  tenement 
with  the  appurtenances,  wherein  one  John  Robinson  dwelleth, 
situate,  lying,  and  being,  in  the  Blackfriars  in  London,  near  the 
Wardrobe  ;  and  all  other  my  lands,  tenements,  and  hereditaments 
whatsoever,  to  have  and  to  hold  all  and  singular  the  said  prem¬ 
ises,  with  their  appurtenances,  unto  the  said  Susanna  Hall,  for 
and  during  the  term  of  her  natural  life,  and  after  her  decease, 
to  the  first  son  of  her  body  lawfully  issuing,  and  to  the  heirs  males 
of  the  body  of  the  said  first  son  lawfully  issuing ;  and  for  default 
of  such  issue,  to  the  second  son  of  her  body  lawfully  issuing,  and 
to  the  heirs  males  of  the  body  of  the  said  second  son  lawfully  issu¬ 
ing;  and  for  default  of  such  heirs,  to  the  third  son  of  the  body  of 
the  said  Susanna  lawfully  issuing,  and  of  the  heirs  males  of  the 
body  of  the  said  third  son  lawfully  issuing  ;  and  for  default  of  such 
issue,  the  same  so  to  be  and  remain  to  the  fourth,  fifth,  sixth,  and 
seventh  sons  of  her  body  lawfully  issuing,  one  after  another,  and 
to  the  heirs  males  of  the  bodies  of  the  said  fourth,  fifth,  sixth, 
and  seventh  sons  lawfully  issuing,  in  such  manner  as  it  is  before 
limited  to  be  and  remain  to  the  first,  second,  and  third  sons  of 


Shakespeare’s  will. 


63 


her  body,  and  to  their  heirs  males  ;  and  for  default  of  such  issue, 
the  said  premises  to  be  and  remain  to  my  said  niece  Hall,  and  the 
heirs  males  of  her  body  lawfully  issuing ;  and  for  default  of  such 
issue,  to  my  daughter  Judith,  and  the  heirs  males  of  her  body 
lawfully  issuing ;  and  for  default  of  such  issue,  to  the  right  heirs 
of  me  the  said  William  Shakespeare  for  ever.  Item,  I  give  unto 
my  wife  my  second  best  bed  with  the  furniture.  Item,  I  give  and 
bequeath  to  my  said  daughter  Judith  my  broad  silver  gilt  bowl. 
All  the  rest  of  my  goods,  chattel,  leases,  plate,  jewels,  and  house¬ 
hold  stuff  whatsoever,  after  my  debts  and  legacies  paid,  and  my 
funeral  expenses  discharged,  I  give,  devise,  and  bequeath  to  my 
son-in-law,  John  Hall,  gent.,  and  my  daughter  Susanna,  his  wife, 
whom  I  ordain  and  make  executors  of  this  my  last  will  and  testa¬ 
ment.  And  I  do  intreat  and  appoint  the  said  Thomas  Russell, 
esquire,  and  Francis  Collins,  gent.,  to  be  overseers  hereof,  and 
do  revoke  all  former  wills,  and  publish  this  to  be  my  last  will 
and  testament.  In  witness  whereof  I  have  hereunto  put  my  hand, 
the  day  and  year  first  above-written. 

By  me  William  Shakespeare. 

Witness  to  the  publishing  hereof, 

Fra:  Collins, 

Julius  Shaw, 

John  Robinson, 

Hamnet  Sadler, 

Robert  Whattcott. 

Probatum  coram  magistro  Willielmo  Byrde,  legum  doctore  comiss. 
&c.  xxijdo.  die  mensis  Junii,  anno  Domini  1616,  juramento  Jo- 
hannis  Hall,  unius  executorum,  &c.  cui  &c.  de  bene  &c.  jurat, 
reservat.  potestate  &c.  Susannas  Hall,  alteri  executorum  &c. 
cum  venerit  petitur.  &c.  (Inv.  ex.) 


64 


SHAKESPEARE. 


DEDICATION  PREFIXED  TO  THE  FOLIO  OF 

1623. 

To  the  most  noble  and  incomparable  pair  of  Brethren, 

William,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  &*c.,  Lord  Chamberlain  to  the 
King's  most  excellent  Majesty, 

and 

Philip,  Earl  of  Montgomery,  <5 r*c.,  Gentleman  of  his  Majesty's 

bedchamber ; 

Both  Knights  of  the  most  noble  order  of  the  Garter,  and  our  sin - 

gular  good  lords. 

Right-Honourable  :  — Whilst  we  study  to  be  thankful  in  our 
particular  for  the  many  favours  we  have  received  from  your  Lord- 
ships,  we  are  fallen  upon  the  ill-fortune,  to  mingle  two  the  most 
diverse  things  that  can  be,  fear  and  rashness,  —  rashness  in  the 
enterprise,  and  fear  of  the  success.  For  when  we  value  the  places 
your  Honours  sustain,  we  cannot  but  know  their  dignity  greater 
than  to  descend  to  the  reading  of  these  trifles  ;  and  while  we  name 
them  trifles,  we  have  deprived  ourselves  of  the  defence  of  our  dedi¬ 
cation.  But  since  your  Lordships  have  been  pleased  to  think  these 
trifles  something  heretofore,  and  have  prosecuted  both  them  and 
their  author  living  with  so  much  favour,  we  hope  that  (they  out¬ 
living  him,  and  he  not  having  the  fate,  common  with  some,  to  be 
executor  to  his  own  writings)  you  will  use  the  like  indulgence 
toward  them  you  have  done  unto  their  parent.  There  is  a  great 
difference  whether  any  book  choose  his  patrons,  or  find  them : 
this  hath  done  both.  For  so  much  were  your  Lordships’  likings 
of  the  several  parts  when  they  were  acted,  as,  before  they  were 
published,  the  volume  asked  to  be  yours.  We  have  but  collected 
them,  and  done  an  office  to  the  dead,  to  procure  his  orphans 
guardians  ;  without  ambition  either  of  self-profit  or  fame ;  only 
to  keep  the  memory  of  so  worthy  a  friend  and  fellow  alive  as  was 


ADDRESS. 


65 


our  Shakespeare,  by  humble  offer  of  his  plays  to  your  most  no¬ 
ble  patronage.  Wherein,  as  we  have  justly  observed  no  man  to 
come  near  your  Lordships  but  with  a  kind  of  religious  address,  it 
hath  been  the  height  of  our  care,  who  are  the  presenters,  to  make 
the  present  worthy  of  your  Honours  by  the  perfection.  But  there 
we  must  also  crave  our  abilities  to  be  considered,  my  lords. 
We  cannot  go  beyond  our  powers.  Country  hands  reach  forth 
milk,  cream,  fruits,  or  what  they  have;  and  many  nations,  we 
have  heard,  that  had  not  gums  and  incense,  obtained  their  re¬ 
quests  with  a  leavened  cake.  It  was  no  fault  to  approach  their 
gods  by  what  means  they  could ;  and  the  most,  though  meanest, 
of  things  are  made  more  precious  when  they  are  dedicated  to 
temples.  In  that  name,  therefore,  we  most  humbly  consecrate 
to  your  Honours  these  remains  of  your  servant  Shakespeare,  that 
what  delight  is  in  them  may  be  ever  your  Lordships’,  the  reputa¬ 
tion  his,  and  the  fault  ours,  if  any  be  committed  by  a  pair  so 
careful  to  show  their  gratitude  both  to  the  living  and  the  dead 
as  is 

Your  Lordships’  most  bounden, 

JOHN  HEMINGE, 

HENRY  CONDELL. 


ADDRESS  PREFIXED  TO  THE  FOLIO  OF  1623. 

To  the  great  Variety  of  Readers . 

From  the  most  able  to  him  that  can  but  spell :  there  you  are 
numbered.  We  had  rather  you  were  weighed :  especially  when 
the  fate  of  all  books  depends  upon  your  capacities ;  and  not  of 
your  heads  alone,  but  of  your  purses.  Well,  it  is  now  public; 
and  you  will  stand  for  your  privileges,  we  know, —  to  read  and 
censure.  Do  so,  but  buy  it  first:  that  doth  best  commend  a 
book,  the  stationer  says.  Then  how  odd  soever  your  brains  be 
or  your  wisdoms,  make  your  license  the  same,  and  spare  not. 
Judge  your  six-pen’orth,  your  shilling’s-worth,  your  five-shillings’- 
worth  at  a  time,  or  higher,  so  you  rise  to  the  just  rates,  and  wel¬ 
come.  But,  whatever  you  do,  buy.  Censure  will  not  drive  a 
trade,  or  make  the  jack  go.  And,  though  you  be  a  magistrate 


66 


SHAKESPEARE. 


of  wit,  and  sit  on  the  stage  at  Black-friars  or  the  Cock-pit,  to 
arraign  plays  daily,  know,  these  plays  have  had  their  trial  already, 
and  stood  out  all  appeals,  and  do  now  come  forth  quitted  rather 
by  a  decree  of  court  than  any  purchased  letters  of  commenda¬ 
tion. 

It  had  been  a  thing,  we  confess,  worthy  to  have  been  wished, 
that  the  author  himself  had  lived  to  have  set  forth  and  overseen 
his  own  writings.  But,  since  it  hath  been  ordained  otherwise, 
and  he  by  death  departed  from  that  right,  we  pray  you  do  not 
envy  his  friends  the  office  of  their  care  and  pain,  to  have  collected 
and  published  them ;  and  so  to  have  published  them  as,  where 
before  you  were  abused  with  divers  stolen  and  surreptitious 
copies,  maimed  and  deformed  by  the  frauds  and  stealths  of  in¬ 
jurious  impostors  that  exposed  them,  even  those  are  now  offered 
to  your  view  cured  and  perfect  of  their  limbs,  and  all  the  rest 
absolute  in  their  numbers  as  he  conceived  them ;  who,  as  he  was 
a  happy  imitator  of  Nature,  was  a  most  gentle  expresser  of  it :  his 
mind  and  hand  went  together ;  and  what  he  thought,  he  uttered 
with  that  easiness,  that  we  have  scarce  received  from  him  a  blot 
in  his  papers.  But  it  is  not  our  province,  who  only  gather  his 
works  and  give  them  you,  to  praise  him.  It  is  yours  that  read 
him :  and  there  we  hope,  to  your  divers  capacities,  you  will  find 
enough  both  to  draw  and  hold  you  ;  for  his  wit  can  no  more  lie 
hid  than  it  could  be  lost.  Read  him,  therefore  ;  and  again  and 
again :  and  if  then  you  do  not  like  him,  surely  you  are  in  some 
manifest  danger  not  to  understand  him.  And  so  we  leave  you  to 
other  of  his  friends,  who,  if  you  need,  can  be  your  guides :  if 
you  need  them  not,  you  can  lead  yourselves  and  others.  And 
such  readers  we  wish  him. 

JOHN  HEMINGE, 

HENRY  CONDELL. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


67 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES  PREFIXED  TO  THE 

FOLIO  OF  1623. 

To  the  Me?nory  of  my  beloved,  the  Author ,  Master  William 
Shakespeare,  and  what  he  hath  left  us. 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name, 

Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame ; 

While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 
As  neither  man  nor  Muse  can  praise  too  much : 

’Tis  true,  and  all  men’s  suffrage  :  but  these  ways 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise  ; 

For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 

Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right ; 

Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne’er  advance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance  ; 

Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 

And  think  to  ruin  where  it  seem’d  to  raise : 

These  are  as  some  infamous  bawd  or  whore 
Should  praise  a  matron :  what  could  hurt  her  more  ? 

But  thou  art  proof  against  them  ;  and,  indeed, 

Above  th’  ill  fortune  of  them  or  the  need. 

I,  therefore,  will  begin  :  Soul  of  the  age, 

Th’  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our  stage, 

My  Shakespeare,  rise !  I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room :  * 

Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 

*  An  allusion  to  the  following  lines  by  William  Basse,  which  are  found 
in  Mss.  with  several  variations :  they  appear  to  have  been  first  printed  in 
1633  among  the  poems  of  Donne,  to  whom  they  were  wrongly  attributed : 

Renowned  Spenser,  lie  a  thought  more  nigh 
To  learned  Chaucer;  and,  rare  Beaumont,  lie 
A  little  nearer  Spenser  ;  to  make  room 
For  Shakespeare  in  your  threefold  fourfold  tomb: 

To  lodge  all  four  in  one  bed  make  a  shift 
Until  doomsday  ;  for  hardly  will  a  fifth. 


68 


SHAKESPEARE. 


And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  book  doth  live, 

And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 

That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses,  — 

I  mean,  with  great  but  disproportion^  Muses  ; 

For,  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 

I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers, 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  outshine, 

Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe’s  mighty  line  : 

And,  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin  and  less  Greek, 
From  thence  to  honour  thee  I  would  not  seek 
For  names  ;  but  call  forth  thundering  Alschylus, 
Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova,  dead, 

To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread 

And  shake  a  stage  ;  or,  when  thy  socks  were  on, 

Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 

Of  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come.  — 

Triumph,  my  Britain !  thou  hast  one  to  show, 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time  ; 

And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime, 

When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 
Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm. 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 

And  joy’d  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines  ; 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 

As  since  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit : 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 


Betwixt  this  day  and  that,  by  fate  be  slain, 

For  whom  your  curtains  may  be  drawn  again. 
But  if  precedency  in  death  doth  bar 
A  fourth  place  in  your  sacred  sepulchre. 

Under  this  carved  marble  of  thine  own, 

Sleep,  rare  tragedian,  Shakespeare,  sleep  alone : 
Thy  unmolested  peace,  unshared  cave, 

Possess  as  lord,  not  tenant,  of  thy  grave; 

That  unto  us  and  others  it  may  be 
Honour  hereafter  to  be  laid  by  thee. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


69 


Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please  ; 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 

As  they  were  not  of  Nature’s  family.  — 

Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all ;  thy  art, 

My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part : 

For,  though  the  poet’s  matter  Nature  be, 

His  art  doth  give  the  fashion ;  and  that  he 
Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line  must  sweat,  — 

Such  as  thine  are,  —  and  strike  the  second  heat 
Upon  the  Muses’  anvil ;  turn  the  same, 

And  himself  with  it,  that  he  thinks  to  frame ; 

Or,  for  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  scorn, — 

For  a  good  poet’s  made,  as  well  as  born : 

And  such  wert  thou.  —  Look  how  the  father’s  face 
Lives  in  his  issue  ;  even  so  the  race 
Of  Shakespeare’s  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 
In  his  well-turned  and  true-filed  lines  ; 

In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance. 

As  brandish’d  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance.  — 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon,  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear, 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames 
That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James ! 

But  stay ;  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 
Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there  : 

Shine  forth,  thou  star  of  poets,  and  with  rage 
Or  influence  chide  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage  ; 

Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath  mourn’d  like  night, 
And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume’s  light.* 

BEN  JONSON. 

*  Upon  these  superb  lines  Dyce  makes  the  following  just  comment : 
“  That  a  sincere  friendship  existed  between  Shakespeare  and  Jonson  will 
never  again  be  doubted  after  the  excellent  memoir  of  the  latter  by  Gifford ; 
and,  indeed,  it  is  surprising  that  the  alleged  enmity  of  Jonson  towards 
Shakespeare  should  not  have  had  an  earlier  refutation,  especially  as  Jon- 
son’s  writings  exhibit  the  most  unequivocal  testimony  of  his  affectionate  ad¬ 
miration  of  Shakespeare.  A  more  glowing  eulogy  than  the  verses  ‘  To  the 
Memory  of  MY  BELOVED,  the  Author,  Mr.  WILLIAM  Shakespeare,’  was 
never  penned.” 


70 


SHAKESPEARE. 


To  the  Memory  of  the  deceased  Author,  Master  W. 

Shakespeare. 

Shakespeare,  at  length  thy  pious  fellows  give 
The  world  thy  works  ;  thy  works,  by  which  out-live 
Thy  tomb  thy  name  must :  when  that  stone  is  rent, 

And  time  dissolves  thy  Stratford  monument, 

Here  we  alive  shall  view  thee  still ;  this  book, 

When  brass  and  marble  fade,  shall  make  thee  look 
F resh  to  all  ages  ;  when  posterity 
Shall  loathe  what’s  new,  think  all  is  prodigy 
That  is  not  Shakespeare’s,  every  line,  each  verse, 

Here  shall  revive,  redeem  thee  from  thy  hearse. 

Nor  fire,  nor  cankering  age,  — as  Naso  said 
Of  his,  —  thy  wit-fraught  book  shall  once  invade  : 

Nor  shall  I  e’er  believe  or  think  thee  dead, 

Though  miss’d,  until  our  bankrupt  stage  be  sped  — 
Impossible  —  with  some  new  strain  t’  out-do 
Passions  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo  ; 

Or  till  I  hear  a  scene  more  nobly  take 

Than  when  thy  half-sword-parleying  Romans  spake  : 

Till  these,  till  any  of  thy  volume’s  rest, 

Shall  with  more  fire,  more  feeling  be  express’d, 

Be  sure,  our  Shakespeare,  thou  canst  never  die, 

But,  crown’d  with  laurel,  live  eternally. 

LEONARD  DIGGES.* 

*  Leonard  Digges,  born  in  London,  was  educated  at  University  College, 
Oxford ;  to  which  college,  after  travelling  “  into  several  countries,”  he  retired ; 
and  died  there  in  1635.  Though  a  very  poor  poet,  he  was  a  person  of 
considerable  accomplishments,  as  is  shown  by  his  translation  of  Claudian’s 
Rape  of  Proserpine,  and  of  Gonfalo  de  Cespides’s  Gerardo ,  the  unfortunate 
Spaniard.  He  has  another  and  much  longer  eulogy  on  Shakespeare,  pre¬ 
fixed  to  the  edition  of  our  author’s  Poems ,  1640. —  Dyce. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES* 


7 1 


To  the  Memory  of  Master  W.  Shakespeare. 

We  wonder’d,  Shakespeare,  that  thou  went’st  so  soon 
F rom  the  world’s  stage  to  the  grave’s  tiring-room  : 

We  thought  thee  dead ;  but  this  thy  printed  worth 
Tells  thy  spectators  that  thou  went’st  but  forth 
To  enter  with  applause.  An  actor’s  art 
Can  die,  and  live  to  act  a  second  part : 

That’s  but  an  exit  of  mortality, 

This  a  re-entrance  to  a  plaudite.  J.  M  * 


Upon  the  Lines  and  Life  of  the  Famous  Scenic  Poet ,  Master 

William  Shakespeare. 

Those  hands  which  you  so  clapp’d,  go  now  and  wring, 

You  Britons  brave  ;  for  done  are  Shakespeare’s  days  ; 

His  days  are  done  that  made  the  dainty  plays, 

Which  made  the  Globe  of  heaven  and  earth  to  ring : 

Dried  is  that  vein,  dried  is  the  Thespian  spring, 

Turn’d  all  to  tears,  and  Phoebus  clouds  his  rays : 

That  corpse,  that  coffin,  now  bestick  those  bays 
Which  crown’d  him  poet  first,  then  poet’s  king. 

If  tragedies  might  any  prologue  have, 

All  those  he  made  would  scarce  make  one  to  this ; 

Where  Fame,  now  that  he  gone  is  to  the  grave  — 

Death’s  public  tiring-house  —  the  Nuntius  is  : 

For,  though  his  line  of  life  went  soon  about, 

The  life  yet  of  his  lines  shall  never  out. 

HUGH  HOLLAND.f 

*  Mr.  Bolton  Corney,  in  Notes  and  Queries ,  leaves  hardly  any  doubt  that 
these  are  the  initials  of  fames  Mabbe,  who  is  described  by  Wood  as  “  a 
learned  man,  good  orator,  and  a  facetious  conceited  wit.”  He  became  pre¬ 
bendary  of  Wells,  and  died  about  the  year  1642. 

t  Hugh  Holland  was  a  Welshman,  who  became  fellow  of  Trinity  Col¬ 
lege,  Cambridge;  travelled  to  Jerusalem,  “to  do  his  devotions  to  the  holy 
sepulchre  ” ;  afterwards  spent  some  years  at  Oxford  “  for  the  sake  of  the  pub¬ 
lic  library  ”  there,  and  “  died  within  the  city  of  Westminster  in  1633.” —  DYCE. 


72 


SHAKESPEARE. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES  PREFIXED  TO  THE 

FOLIO  OF  1632* 

Upon  the  Effigies  of  my  worthy  Friend ,  the  Author ,  Master 
William  Shakespeare,  and  his  Works. 

Spectator,  this  life’s  shadow  is  :  to  see 
This  truer  image  and  a  livelier  he, 

Turn  reader.  But  observe  his  comic  vein, 

Laugh  ;  and  proceed  next  to  a  tragic  strain, 

Then  weep  :  so,  when  thou  find’st  two  contrairies, 

Two  different  passions  from  thy  rapt  soul  rise, 

Say  —  who  alone  effect  such  wonders  could  — 

Rare  Shakespeare  to  the  life  thou  dost  behold 


An  Epitaph  on  the  Admirable  Dramatic  Poet ,  W.  Shakespeare. 

What  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honour’d  bones 
The  labour  of  an  age  in  piled  stones, 

Or  that  his  hallow’d  relics  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-ypointing  pyramid? 

Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 

What  need’st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name? 

Thou,  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment, 

Hast  built  thyself  a  live-long  monument : 

For  whilst,  to  th’  shame  of  slow-endeavouring  art, 

Thy  easy  numbers  flow ;  and  that  each  heart 
Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book 
Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took ; 

*  The  second  folio  prints  the  following  pieces  in  addition  to  those  that 
precede. 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES.  73 

Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving, 

Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving ; 

And,  so  sepulchred,  in  such  pomp  dost  lie, 

That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die.* 


On  worthy  Master  Shakespeare  and  his  Poems . 

A  mind  reflecting  ages  past,  whose  clear 
And  equal  surface  can  make  things  appear,  — 

Distant  a  thousand  years,  —  and  represent 
Them  in  their  lively  colours,  just  extent : 

To  outrun  hasty  Time,  retrieve  the  Fates, 

Roll  back  the  heavens,  blow  ope  the  iron  gates 
Of  Death  and  Lethe,  where  confused  lie 
Great  heaps  of  ruinous  mortality : 

In  that  deep  dusky  dungeon  to  discern 
A  royal  ghost  from  churls ;  by  art  to  learn 
The  physiognomy  of  shades,  and  give 
Them  sudden  birth,  wondering  how  oft  they  live  ; 

What  story  coldly  tells,  what  poets  feign 
At  second  hand,  and  picture  without  brain,  — 

Senseless  and  soulless  shows,  —  to  give  a  stage,  — 
Ample,  and  true  with  life,  —  voice,  action,  age, 

As  Plato’s  year,  and  new  scene  of  the  world, 

Them  unto  us,  or  us  to  them  had  hurl’d : 

To  raise  our  ancient  sovereigns  from  their  hearse, 

Make  kings  his  subjects  ;  by  exchanging  verse 
Enlive  their  pale  trunks,  that  the  present  age 
Joys  in  their  joy,  and  trembles  at  their  rage  : 

Yet  so  to  temper  passion,  that  our  ears 
Take  pleasure  in  their  pain,  and  eyes  in  tears 
Both  weep  and  smile  ;  fearful  at  plots  so  sad, 

Then  laughing  at  our  fear ;  abused,  and  glad 

*  The  authorship  of  these  lines  was  ascertained  by  their  appearing  in  an 
edition  of  Milton’s  Poems  published  in  1645. 


7  4 


SHAKESPEARE. 


To  be  abused ;  affected  with  that  truth 
Which  we  perceive  is  false,  pleased  in  that  ruth 
At  which  we  start,  and  by  elaborate  play 
Tortured  and  tickled  ;  by  a  crab-like  way 
Time  past  made  pastime,  and  in  ugly  sort 
Disgorging  up  his  ravin  for  our  sport :  — 

While  the  plebeian  imp,  from  lofty  throne, 

Creates  and  rules  a  world,  and  works  upon 
Mankind  by  secret  engines  ;  now  to  move 
A  chilling  pity,  then  a  rigorous  love  ; 

To  strike  up  and  stroke  down  both  joy  and  ire ; 

To  stir  th’  affections  ;  and  by  heavenly  fire 
Mould  us  anew,  stol’n  from  ourselves  :  — 

This,  and  much  more  which  cannot  be  express’d 
But  by  himself,  his  tongue,  and  his  own  breast, 

Was  Shakespeare’s  freehold  ;  which  his  cunning  brain 
Improved  by  favour  of  the  nine-fold  train ; 

The  buskin’d  Muse,  the  comic  queen,  the  grand 
And  louder  tone  of  Clio,  nimble  hand 
And  nimbler  foot  of  the  melodious  pair, 

The  silver-voiced  lady,  the  most  fair 
Calliope,  whose  speaking  silence  daunts, 

And  she  whose  praise  the  heavenly  body  chants ; 
These  jointly  woo’d  him,  envying  one  another,  — 
Obey’d  by  all  as  spouse,  but  loved  as  brother,  — 

And  wrought  a  curious  robe,  of  sable  grave, 

Fresh  green,  and  pleasant  yellow,  red  most  brave, 
And  constant  blue,  rich  purple,  guiltless  white, 

The  lowly  russet,  and  the  scarlet  bright ; 

Branch’d  and  embroider’d  like  the  painted  Spring ; 
Each  leaf  match’d  with  a  flower,  and  each  string 
Of  golden  wire,  each  line  of  silk ;  there  run 
Italian  works,  whose  thread  the  sisters  spun ; 

And  there  did  sing,  or  seem  to  sing,  the  choice 
Birds  of  a  foreign  note  and  various  voice  ; 

Here  hangs  a  mossy  rock ;  there  plays  a  fair 
But  chiding  fountain,  purled  ;  not  the  air, 

Nor  clouds,  nor  thunder,  but  were  living  drawn,  — 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES. 


7  5 


Not  out  of  common  tiffany  or  lawn, 

But  fine  materials,  which  the  Muses  know, 

And  only  know  the  countries  where  they  grow. 

Now,  when  they  could  no  longer  him  enjoy 
In  mortal  garments  pent,  —  “  Death  may  destroy,” 

They  say,  “  his  body ;  but  his  verse  shall  live, 

And  more  than  Nature  takes  our  hands  shall  give : 

In  a  less  volume,  but  more  strongly  bound, 

Shakespeare  shall  breathe  and  speak ;  with  laurel  crown’d 
Which  never  fades  ;  fed  with  ambrosian  meat, 

In  a  well-lined  vesture,  rich  and  neat.” 

So  with  this  robe  they  clothe  him,  bid  him  wear  it ; 

For  time  shall  never  stain  nor  envy  tear  it. 

The  friendly  admirer  of  his  endowments, 

J.  M.  S.* 

*  The  authorship  of  this  most  intelligent  and  appreciative  strain  of  com¬ 
mendation  has  not  been  fully  settled,  and  probably  never  will  be.  Malone 
conjectured  the  initials  to  stand  for  “Jasper  Mayne,  Student";  and  Mr. 
Bolton  Corney  pointed  out  to  Dyce  some  dozen  pieces  of  occasional  verse 
written  by  Mayne,  which,  though  greatly  inferior  to  this  on  Shakespeare, 
yet  bear,  he  thinks,  a  sufficient  resemblance  to  it  in  style  to  warrant  a  belief 
in  Malone’s  conjecture.  None  of  the  signatures,  however,  to  those  pieces 
give  any  fair  colour  to  the  inference  of  the  letter  S  being  put  for  Student; 
nor  do  the  pieces  themselves  show  any  indications  of  the  power  displayed 
in  this  instance.  Singer  notes  upon  the  subject  as  follows :  “  Conjecture 
had  been  vainly  employed  upon  the  initials  J.  M.  S.,  until  Mr.  Hunter,  hav¬ 
ing  occasion  to  refer  to  the  Iter  Lancastrense ,  a  poem  by  Richard  James ,  an 
eminent  scholar  and  antiquary,  the  friend  of  Selden  and  Sir  Robert  Cotton, 
was  struck  with  the  similarity  of  style,  the  same  unexpected  and  abrupt 
breaks  in  the  middle  of  the  lines,  and  the  same  disposition  to  view  every 
thing  under  its  antiquarian  aspect,  which  we  find  in  these  verses ;  and  there¬ 
fore  suggested  the  great  probability  that  by  J.  M.  S.  we  must  understand 
JaMeS.  Without  being  at  all  aware  of  Mr.  Hunter’s  suggestion,  my  excel¬ 
lent  friend  Mr.  Lloyd  had  come  to  the  same  conclusion,  from  having  seen 
some  lines  by  James,  printed  in  Mr.  Halliwell’s  Essay  on  the  Character  of 
Falstaff.  The  coincident  opinion  of  two  independent  and  able  authorities 
would  be  in  itself  conclusive ;  and,  for  my  own  part,  I  have  no  doubt  that  it 
is  to  Richard  James  these  highly  poetical  lines  to  the  memory  of  the  Poet 
must  be  attributed.” 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


♦ 


FIRST  printed  in  the  folio  of  1623.  One  of  the  twelve  plays 
mentioned  by  Francis  Meres  in  his  Palladis  Tamia,  1598. 
All  are  agreed  in  regarding  it  as  among  the  Poet’s  earliest  con¬ 
tributions  to  the  stage  ;  though  it  is  somewhat  uncertain  whether, 
of  the  Comedies,  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  and  the  original 
form  of  Love's  Labours  Lost  may  not  have  preceded  it.  In  the 
Gesta  Grayorum ,  1594,  we  have  the  following:  “After  such 
sports,  a  Comedy  of  Errors ,  like  to  Plautus’s  Menechmus ,  was 
played  by  the  players :  so  that  night  was  begun,  and  continued 
to  the  end,  in  nothing  but  confusion  and  errors ;  whereupon  it 
was  ever  afterwards  called  The  Night  of  Errors."  This  doubt¬ 
less  refers  to  the  play  in  hand,  and  infers  it  to  have  been  per¬ 
formed  at  Gray’s-Inn  in  December,  1594.  The  date  of  the  writing 
is  further  approximated  from  a  curious  piece  of  internal  evidence. 
In  iii.  2,  Dromio  of  Syracuse,  talking  of  the  “  kitchen  wench  ” 
who  made  love  to  him,  and  who  was  “  spherical  like  globe,”  so 
that  he  “  could  find  out  countries  in  her,”  in  answer  to  the  ques¬ 
tion,  “Where  France  ?”  replies,  “  In  her  forehead;  arm’d  and 
reverted,  making  war  against  her  hair.”  Here  of  course  an 
equivoque  was  intended  between  hair  and  heir ,  else  there  were 
no  apparent  point  in  the  jest ;  and  the  reference  clearly  is  to  the 
War  of  the  League  against  Henry  of  Navarre,  who  became  heir 
to  the  crown  of  France  in  1589.  As  this  war  was  on  account  of 
Henry’s  being  a  Protestant,  the  English  people  took  great  inter¬ 
est  in  it ;  in  fact,  Queen  Elizabeth  sent  several  bodies  of  troops 
to  aid  him ;  so  that  the  allusion  would  naturally  be  understood 
and  relished.  The  war,  however,  continued  several  years,  until 
at  length  Henry  embraced  the  Roman  Catholic  religion  at  St. 
Denis,  in  July,  1593. 


77 


78 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


The  general  idea  or  plan  of  the  piece  is  borrowed  from  the 
Mencechmi  of  Plautus,  but  the  plot  is  entirely  recast,  and  made 
much  more  diverting  by  the  variety  and  quick  succession  of  the 
incidents.  To  the  twin  brothers  of  Plautus  are  added  twin  ser¬ 
vants  ;  which,  to  be  sure,  greatly  heightens  the  improbability ; 
but,  as  Schlegel  observes,  “  when  once  we  have  lent  ourselves  to 
the  first,  which  certainly  borders  on  the  incredible,  we  should 
not  probably  be  disposed  to  cavil  about  the  second ;  and  if  the 
spectator  is  to  be  entertained  with  mere  perplexities,  they  cannot 
be  too  much  varied.” 

There  has  been  considerable  diversity  of  opinion  as  to  the 
immediate  source-  of  the  plot.  Collier  discovered  that  an  old 
drama  entitled  The  History  of  Error  was  acted  at  Hampton 
Court,  January  i,  1577,  and  probably  again  at  Windsor  on 
Twelfth  Night,  1583  ;  and  he  conjectures  the  Poet  to  have  taken 
this  as  the  basis  of  his  comedy,  and  to  have  interwoven  parts  of 
it  with  his  own  matter,  especially  the  doggerel  verses.  The  older 
play  not  having  been  recovered,  nor  any  part  of  it,  we  have  no 
means  of  either  refuting  or  verifying  this  conjecture.  —  Another 
opinion  supposes  the  Poet  to  have  drawn  from  a  free  version 
of  the  Mencechmi  published  in  1595,  as  “A  pleasant  and  fine- 
conceited  Comedy,  taken  out  of  the  most  excellent  witty  poet 
Plautus.”  This  version,  to  be  sure,  did  not  come  out  till  after 
The  Comedy  of  Errors  was  written :  but  then  Shakespeare  may 
have  seen  it  in  manuscript ;  for  in  his  preface  the  translator 
speaks  of  having  “divers  of  this  poet’s  comedies  Englished,  for 
the  use  and  delight  of  private  friends,  who  in  Plautus’s  own  words 
are  not  able  to  understand  them.”  Nevertheless  I  am  far  from 
thinking  this  to  have  been  the  case  ;  there  being  no  such  verbal 
or  other  resemblances  between  the  two,  as,  in  that  case,  could 
scarce  have  been  avoided.  The  accurate  Ritson  ascertained  that 
of  this  version  not  a  single  peculiar  name  or  phrase  or  thought  is 
to  be  traced  in  Shakespeare’s  comedy.  On  the  whole,  I  cannot 
discover  the  slightest  objection  to  supposing,  along  with  Knight 
and  Verplanck,  that  the  Poet  may  have  drawn  directly  from 
Plautus  himself ;  the  matter  common  to  them  both  not  being 
such  but  that  it  may  well  enough  have  been  taken  by  one  who 
had  “  small  Latin.” 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Solinus,  Duke  of  Ephesus. 
vEgeon,  a  Merchant  of  Syracuse. 

Antipholus  of  Ephesus, 
Antipholus  of  Syracuse^  ^Emilia. 

DROMIO  of  Ephesus,  ")  twm  Brothers. 
^  r  „  >  Servants  to  the 

DKOMIO  of  Syracuse,  j  tm  Former 

Balthazar,  a  Merchant. 

Angelo,  a  Goldsmith. 

First  Merchant,  Friend  to  Antipholus 
of  Syracuse. 


Second  Merchant,  to  whom  Angelo 
is  a  debtor. 

Pinch,  a  Schoolmaster. 

.Emilia,  Wife  to  Egeon,  an  Abbess 
at  Ephesus. 

Adriana,  Wife  to  Antipholus  of 
Ephesus. 

Luciana,  her  Sister. 

Luce,  Servant  to  Adriana, 

A  Courtezan. 


Jailer,  Officers,  and  other  Attendants. 
Scene, — Ephesus. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  —  A  Hall  in  the  Duke’s  Palace. 

Enter  the  Duke,  AEgeon,  Jailer,  Officers,  and  other 

Attendants. 

AEge.  Proceed,  Solinus,  to  procure  my  fall, 

And  by  the  doom  of  death  end  woes  and  all. 

Duke.  Merchant  of  Syracusa,  plead  no  more  ; 

I  am  not  partial  to  infringe 1  our  laws  : 

1  We  should  say,  “  I  am  not  the  party  to  infringe,”  or,  “  I’ll  take  no  part 
in  infringing.”  So,  in  Measure  for  Me asure,  v.  i,  we  have  “  In  this  I’ll  be 
impartial" ;  meaning  “  I’ll  take  no  part  in  this.” 


79 


So 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  I. 


The  enmity  and  discord  which  of  late 
Sprung  from  the  rancorous  outrage  of  your  Duke 
To  merchants,  our  well-dealing  countrymen,  — 

Who,  wanting  guilders2  to  redeem  their  lives, 

Have  seal’d  his  rigorous  statutes  with  their  bloods,  — 
Excludes  all  pity  from  our  threatening  looks. 

For,  since  the  mortal3  and  intestine  jars 
’Twixt  thy  seditious  countrymen  and  us, 

It  hath  in  solemn  synods  been  decreed, 

Both  by  the  Syracusians  and  ourselves, 

T’  admit  no  traffic  to  our  adverse  towns : 

Nay,  more,  if  any  born  at  Ephesus 
Be  seen  at  Syracusian  marts  and  fairs ; 

Again,  if  any  Syracusian  born 
Come  to  the  bay  of  Ephesus,  he  dies, 

His  goods  confiscate  to  the  Duke’s  dispose  ;4 
Unless  a  thousand  marks  be  levied, 

To  quit5  the  penalty  and  ransom  him. 

Thy  substance,  valued  at  the  highest  rate, 

Cannot  amount  unto  a  hundred  marks ; 

Therefore  by  law  thou  art  condemn’d  to  die. 

sEge.  Yet  ’tis  my  comfort,  when  your  words  are  done, 

My  woes  end  likewise  with  the  evening  Sun. 

Duke.  Well,  Syracusian,  say,  in  brief,  the  cause 
Why  thou  departed’st  from  thy  native  home, 

2  Guelder  is  the  name  of  a  Flemish  and  of  a  German  coin ;  the  former 
equal  to  about  thirty-eight  cents  of  our  reckoning,  the  latter  to  about  eighty- 
seven. 

3  Mortal  is  deadly  or  fatal.  Commonly  so  in  Shakespeare. 

4  Dispose  for  disposal  or  disposition.  The  Poet  has  many  such  shortened 
forms.  So,  in  iii.  i,  of  this  play  we  have  “within  the  compass  of  suspect"; 
that  is,  suspicion. —  Confiscate ,  also,  for  confiscated.  The  Poet  has  many  like 
shortened  preterites,  such  as  consecrate,  dedicate ,  suffocate,  situate ,  and  con¬ 
taminate. 

5  To  quit,  here,  is  to  set  free  from,  or  to  release ;  much  the  same  as  to 
acquit.  The  Poet  has  it  repeatedly  so. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


81 


And  for  what  cause  thou  earnest  to  Ephesus. 

s£ge.  A  heavier  task  could  not  have  been  imposed 
Than  I  to  speak  my  griefs  unspeakable  : 

Yet,  that  the  world  may  witness  that  my  end 
Was  wrought  by  nature,6  not  by  vile  offence, 

I’ll  utter  what  my  sorrow  gives  me  leave. 

In  Syracusa  was  I  born  ;  and  wed 
Unto  a  woman,  happy  but  for  me, 

And  by  me  too,  had  not  our  hap  been  bad. 

With  her  I  lived  in  joy ;  our  wealth  increased 
By  prosperous  voyages  I  often  made 
To  Epidamnum ;  till  my  factor’s  death, 

And  the  great  care  of  goods  at  random  left, 

Drew  me  from  kind  embracements  of  my  spouse  : 

From  whom  my  absence  was  not  six  months  old, 

Before  herself — almost  at  fainting  under 
The  pleasing  punishment  that  women  bear  — 

Had  made  provision  for  her  following  me, 

And  soon  and  safe  arrived  where  I  was. 

There  had  she  not  been  long  but  she  became 
A  joyful  mother  of  two  goodly  sons  ; 

And,  which  was  strange,  the  one  so  like  the  other 
As  7  could  not  be  distinguish’d  but  by  names. 

That  very  hour,  and  in  the  self-same  inn, 

A  meaner  woman  was  delivered 

Of  such  a  burden,  male  twins,  both  alike  : 

Those,  for8  their  parents  were  exceeding  poor, 

I  bought,  and  brought  up  to  attend  my  sons. 

My  wife,  not  meanly  proud  of  two  such  boys, 

Made  daily  motions  for  our  home  return  : 

6  Here,  as  in  many  other  places,  nature  is  natural  affection. 

7  As  is  here  equivalent  to  that  they.  The  word  was  used  much  more 
loosely  in  the  Poet’s  time  than  it  is  now. 

8  For  in  the  sense  of  because  or  for  that.  A  frequent  usage. 


8  2 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  I. 


Unwilling  I  agreed.  Alas,  too  soon 
We  came  aboard  ! 

A  league  from  Epidamnum  had  we  sail’d, 

Before  the  always-wind-obeying  deep 
Gave  any  tragic  instance  9  of  our  harm  : 

But  longer  did  we  not  retain  much  hope ; 

For  what  obscured  light  the  heavens  did  grant 
Did  but  convey  unto  our  fearful  minds 
A  doubtful  warrant  of  immediate  death  ; 

Which  though  myself  would  gladly  have  embraced, 

Yet  the  incessant  weepings  of  my  wife, 

Weeping  before  for  what  she  saw  must  come, 

And  piteous  plainings  of  the  pretty  babes, 

That  mourn’d  for  fashion,  ignorant  what  to  fear, 

Forced  me  to  seek  delays  for  them  and  me. 

And  thus  it  was,  —  for  other  means  was  none  :  — * 

The  sailors  sought  for  safety  by  our  boat, 

And  left  the  ship,  then  sinking-ripe,  to  us : 

My  wife,  more  careful  for  the  later-born, 

Had  fasten’d  him  unto  a  small  spare  mast, 

Such  as  seafaring  men  provide  for  storms ; 

To  him  one  of  the  other  twins  was  bound, 

Whilst  I  had  been  like  heedful  of  the  other : 

The  children  thus  disposed,  my  wife  and  I, 

Fixing  our  eyes  on  whom  our  care  was  fix’d, 

Fasten’d  ourselves  at  either  end  the  mast ; 

And  floating  straight,  obedient  to  the  stream, 

Were  carried  towards 10  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 

At  length  the  Sun,  gazing  upon  the  Earth, 

9  Shakespeare  uses  instance  with  various  shades  of  meaning  not  always 
easily  distinguishable ;  such  as  example ,  motive ,  ground ,  assurance ,  prog¬ 
nostic,  or  warnitig ;  which  latter  is  the  meaning  here. 

10  Towards  is  one  or  two  syllables,  and  has  the  accent  on  the  first  or  sec¬ 
ond  syllable,  indifferently  in  Shakespeare,  according  to  the  needs  of  his 
verse.  Here  it  is  two  syllables,  with  the  accent  on  the  first. 


SCENE  I.  THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  83 

Dispersed  those  vapours  that  offended  us ; 

And,  by  the  benefit  of  his  wish’d  light, 

The  seas  wax’d  calm,  and  we  discovered 
Two  ships  from  far  making  amain11  to  us, 

Of  Corinth  that,  of  Epidaurus  this  : 

But,  ere  they  came,  —  O,  let  me  say  no  more  ! 

Gather  the  sequel  by  that  went  before. 

Duke .  Nay,  forward,  old  man  ;  do  not  break  off  so  ; 

For  we  may  pity,  though  not  pardon  thee. 

DEge.  O,  had  the  gods  done  so,  I  had  not  now 
Worthily  term’d  them  merciless  to  us  ! 

For,  ere  the  ships  could  meet  by  twice  five  leagues, 

We  were  encounter’d  by  a  mighty  rock ; 

Which  being  violently  borne  upon, 

Our  hopeful  ship  was  splitted  in  the  midst ; 

So  that,  in  this  unjust  divorce  of  us, 

Fortune  had  left  to  both  of  us  alike 
What  to  delight  in,  what  to  sorrow  for. 

Her  part,  poor  soul !  seeming  as  burdened 
With  lesser  weight,  but  not  with  lesser  woe, 

Was  carried  with  more  speed  before  the  wind ; 

And  in  our  sight  they  three  were  taken  up 
By  fishermen  of  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 

At  length,  the  other  ship  had  seized  on  us ; 

And,  knowing  whom  it  was  their  hap  to  save, 

Gave  healthful  welcome  to  their  shipwreck’d  guests  ; 

And  would  have  reft  the  fishers  of  their  prey, 

Had  not  their  bark  been  very  slow  of  sail ; 

And  therefore  homeward  did  they  bend  their  course. 

Thus  have  you  heard  me  sever’d  from  my  bliss  ; 

Thus  by  misfortune  was  my  life  prolong’d, 

11  Amain  is  with  strength ,  or  strongly ;  that  is,  swiftly.  So,  in  Shake¬ 
speare,  the  adjective  main  often  means  great  or  mighty,  as  in  the  phrase, 
"with  main  strength.” 


84 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  h 


To  tell  sad  stories  of  my  own  mishaps. 

Duke.  And,  for  the  sake  of  them  thou  sorrow’st  for. 

Do  me  the  favour  to  dilate  at  full 

What  hath  befall’n  of  them  and  thee  till  now. 

s£ge.  My  youngest  boy,  and  yet  my  eldest  care. 

At  eighteen  years  became  inquisitive 
After  his  brother ;  and  impdrtuned  me 
That  his  attendant  —  for  his  case  was  like, 

Reft  of  his  brother,  but  retain’d 12  his  name  — 

Might  bear  him  company  in  the  quest  of  him : 

Whom  whilst  I  labour’d  of  a  love 13  to  see, 

I  hazarded  the  loss  of  whom  I  loved. 

Five  Summers  have  I  spent  in  farthest  Greece, 

Roaming  clean 14  through  the  bounds  of  Asia, 

And,  coasting  homeward,  came  to  Ephesus ; 

Hopeless  to  find,  yet  loth  to  leave  unsought 
Or  that  or15  any  place  that  harbours  men. 

But  here  must  end  the  story  of  my  life ; 

And  happy  were  I  in  my  timely  death, 

Could  all  my  travels  warrant  me  they  live. 

Duke.  Hapless  Higeon,  whom  the  fates  have  mark’d 
To  bear  th’  extremity  of  dire  mishap  ! 

Now,  trust  me,  were  it  not  against  our  laws, 

Against  my  crown,  my  oath,  my  dignity,  — 

Which  princes,  would  they,  may  not  disannul,16  — 

My  soul  should  sue  as  advocate  for  thee. 

12  The  language,  expressed  in  full,  would  be  “  He  was  reft  of  his  brother, 
but  retain’d.”  The  Poet  has  many  like  ellipses. 

13  Here  ^/stands  for  the  relation  of  cause :  from  or  out  ofo.  love. 

14  Clean  is  utterly  or  entirely.  So  in  Julius  Ccesar,  i.  3  :  “  Men  may  con¬ 
strue  things  clea?i  from  the  purpose.”  Also  in  the  77th  Psalm :  “  Is  His 
mercy  clean  gone  for  ever  ?  " 

15  Or —  or  for  either —  or  is  frequent  in  all  English  poetry. 

16  Disannul  for  annul,  though  properly  meaning  just  the  opposite.  So 
in  Galatians,  iii.  17 :  “  The  covenant,  that  was  confirmed  before,  the  law 
cannot  disannul.” 


SCENE  II. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


85 


But,  though  thou  art  adjudged  to  the  death, 

And  passed  sentence  may  not  be  recall’d 
But  to  our  honour’s  great  disparagement, 

Yet  will  I  favour  thee  in  what  I  can. 

Therefore,  merchant,  I’ll  limit  thee  this  day 
To  seek  thy  life  by  beneficial  help  : 17 
Try  all  the  friends  thou  hast  in  Ephesus  ; 

Beg  thou,  or  borrow,  to  make  up  the  sum,* 

And  live  ;  if  not,  then  thou  art  doom’d  to  die.  — 

Jailer,  now  take  him  to  thy  custody. 

Jail.  I  will,  my  lord. 

s£ge.  Hopeless  and  helpless  doth  Higeon  wend, 

But^  to  procrastinate  his  lifeless  end.  \_Exeunt. 


Scene  II.  —  The  Mart. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Syracuse ,  Dromio  of  Syracuse,  and 

First  Merchant. 

1  Mer.  Therefore  give  out  you  are  of  Epidamnum, 

Lest  that1  your  goods  too  soon  be  confiscate. 

This  very  day  a  Syracusian  merchant 
Is  apprehended  for  arrival  here ; 

And,  not  being  able  to  buy  out  his  life, 

According  to  the  statute  of  the  town, 

Dies  ere  the  weary  Sun  set  in  the  West. 

There  is  your  money  that  I  had  to  keep. 

Ant.  S.  Go  bear  it  to  the  Centaur,  where  we  host,2 

17  The  Poet  repeatedly  uses  beneficial  for  beneficent  or  benevolent.  So 
that  “beneficial  help  ”  is  assistance  rendered  out  of  charity  or  kindness. 

1  *  Lest  that"  is  old  language  for  lest  simply.  So  we  have  if  that ,  since 
that ,  though  that ,  when  that ,  &c.,  where  we  should  now  use  only  if  since , 
though ,  when,  &c. 

2  To  host  for  to  lodge.  So  again  in  All's  Well,  iii.  5  :  “  Come,  pilgrim,  I 
will  bring  you  where  you  shall  host.”  In  King  Lear ;  v.  2,  the  word  occurs 
as  a  substantive  for  lodging.  —  Centaur  is  the  name  of  an  inn.  And  so  with 
Phosnix  a  little  further  on. 


86 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  I. 


And  stay  there,  Dromio,  till  I  come  to  thee. 

Within  this  hour  it  will  be  dinner-time  : 

Till  that,  I’ll  view  the  manners  of  the  town, 

Peruse  3  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings, 

And  then  return,  and  sleep  within  mine  inn ; 

For  with  long  travel  I  am  stiff  and  weary. 

Get  thee  away. 

Dro.  S.  Many~a  man  would  take  you  at  your  word, 

And  go  indeed,  having  so  good  a  mean.4  \_Exit 

Ant.  S.  A  trusty  villain,  sir  ;  that  very  oft, 

When  I  am  dull  with  care  and  melancholy, 

Lightens  my  humour  with  his  merry  jests. 

What,  will  you  walk  with  me  about  the  town, 

And  then  go  to  my  inn,  and  dine  with  me  ? 

i  Mer.  I  am  invited,  sir,  to  certain  merchants, 

Of  whom  I  hope  to  make  much  benefit ; 

I  crave  your  pardon.  Soon  at5  five  o’clock, 

Please  you,  I’ll  meet  with  you  upon  the  mart, 

And  afterward  consort6  you  till  bed-time  : 

My  present  business  calls  me  from  you  now. 

Ant.  S.  Farewell  till  then  :  I  will  go  lose  myself, 

And  wander  up  and  down  to  view  the  city. 

i  Mer.  Sir,  I  commend  you  to  your  own  content.  \_Exit. 
A?it.  S.  He  that  commends  me  to  mine  own  content 
Commends  me  to  the  thing  I  cannot  get. 

3  The  Poet  often  has  peruse  for  mark  or  observe  closely.  So  in  Hamlet , 
iv.  4 :  “  He,  being  remiss,  most  generous,  and  free  from  all  contriving,  will 
not  peruse  the  foils.” 

4  Mean  and  means  were  used  indifferently.  Here  mean  refers  to  the 
money.  And  the  sense  is,  “  Many  a  man,  having  such  a  purse  of  money  in 
trust,  would  run  away.” 

6  Soon  at  is  an  old  phrase  for  about.  So  again  in  iii.  i,  of  this  play : 
“And  soon  at  supper-time  I’ll  visit  you.”  Also  in  The  Merchant,  ii.  3  :  “ Soon 
at  supper  shalt  thou  see  Lorenzo.” 

6  Consort  for  accompany  or  attend.  So  in  Love's  Labours  Lost ,  ii.  1 : 
“  Sweet  health  and  fair  desires  consort  your  Grace !  ” 


SCENE  II. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


I  to  the  world  am  like  a  drop  of  water, 

That  in  the  ocean  seeks  another  drop ; 

Who,  falling  there  to  find  his  fellow  forth, 

Unseen,  inquisitive,  confounds 7  himself : 

So  I,  to  find  a  mother  and  a  brother, 

In  quest  of  them,  unhappy,  lose  myself. 

Here  comes  the  almanac  of  my  true  date.8  — 

Enter  Dromio  of  Ephesus. 

What  now  ?  how  chance  thou  art  return’d  so  soon  ? 

Dro.  E.  Return’d  so  soon  !  rather  approach’d  too  late  : 
The  capon  burns,  the  pig  falls  from  the  spit;9 
The  clock  hath  strucken  twelve  upon  the  bell,  — 

My  mistress  made  it  one  upon  my  cheek : 

She  is  so  hot,  because  the  meat  is  cold ; 

The  meat  is  cold,  because  you  come  not  home  ; 

You  come  not  home,  because  you  have  no  stomach;10 
You  have  no  stomach,  having  broke  your  fast ; 

But  we,  that  know  what  ’tis  to  fast  and  pray, 

Are  penitent  for  your  default  to-day. 

Ant.  S.  Stop  in  your  wind,  sir  :  tell  me  this,  I  pray,  — 
Where  have  you  left  the  money  that  I  gave  you  ? 

Dro.  E.  O,  sixpence,  that  I  had  o’  Wednesday  last 
To  pay  the  saddler  for  my  mistress’  crupper  : 

The  saddler  had  it,  sir ;  I  kept  it  not. 

Ant.  S.  I  am  not  in  a  sportive  humour  now  : 

7  To  spend ,  to  consume,  to  destroy  are  old  meanings  of  to  confound.  — 
Forth  was  often  used  with  the  sense  of  out. 

8  The  almanac  of  his  true  date,  because  they  were  both  born  the  same 
day. 

9  A  spit  was  an  iron  rod,  to  thrust  through  a  fowl,  a  pig,  or  a  piece  of 
meat,  for  roasting.  The  fowl  or  pig  was  then  placed  before  the  fire,  so  as 
to  be  kept  turning ;  and  the  one  who  turned  it  was  called  a  turnspit. 

10  Stomach  for  appetite.  A  frequent  usage.  Sometimes  it  means  com » 
age  ;  that  is,  an  appetite  for  fighting. 


88 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  I. 


Tell  me,  and  dally  not,  where  is  the  money? 

We  being  strangers  here,  how  darest  thou  trust 
So  great  a  charge  from  thine  own  custody? 

Dro.  E.  I  pray  you,  jest,  sir,  as  you  sit  at  dinner : 

I  from  my  mistress  come  to  you  in  post;11 
If  I  return,  I  shall  be  post  indeed, 

For  she  will  score12  your  fault  upon  my  pate. 

Methinks  your  maw,  like  mine,  should  be  your  clock, 

And  strike  you  home  without  a  messenger. 

Ant .  S.  Come,  Dromio,  come,  these  jests  are  out  of  sea¬ 
son  ; 

Reserve  them  till  a  merrier  hour  than  this. 

Where  is  the  gold  I  gave  in  charge  to  thee  ? 

Dro.  E.  To  me,  sir  !  why,  you  gave  no  gold  to  me. 

Ant.  S.  Come  on,  sir  knave,  have  done  your  foolishness, 
And  tell  me  how  thou  hast  disposed  thy  charge. 

Dro.  E.  My  charge  was  but  to  fetch  you  from  the  mart 
Home  to  your  house,  the  Phoenix,  sir,  to  dinner : 

My  mistress  and  her  sister  stay  for  you. 

Ant.  S.  Now,  as  I  am  a  Christian,  answer  me, 

In  what  safe  place  you  have  bestow’d  my  money ; 

Or  I  shall  break  that  merry  sconce13  of  yours, 

That  stands  on  tricks  when  I  am  undisposed  : 

Where  is  the  thousand  marks  thou  hadst  of  me  ? 

Dro.  E.  I  have  some  marks  of  yours  upon  my  pate, 

Some  of  my  mistress’  marks  upon  my  shoulders  ; 

But  not  a  thousand  marks 14  between  you  both. 


11  "  In  post"  is  in  haste  ;  going  with  the  speed  of  a  postman. 

12  To  score t  as  the  word  is  here  used,  is  to  mark ;  as  accounts  were  for¬ 
merly  kept  by  marking  the  items  on  a  board  or  a  post,  or  by  cutting  notches 
in  a  stick.  —  Maw ,  in  the  next  line,  is  stomach. 

13  Sconce  is  properly  a  round  fortification ;  and,  from  the  shape  of  the 
thing,  the  word  came  to  be  used  of  the  head. 

14  A  quibble  between  mark  as  a  denomination  of  value,  and  mark  in  the 
ordinary  sense.  The  English  mark  was  equal  to  13  s.  8  d.,  or  about  $  3.25. 


SCENE  II. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


89 


If  I  should  pay  your  Worship15  those  again, 

Perchance  you  will  not  bear  them  patiently. 

Ant.  S.  Thy  mistress’  marks  !  what  mistress,  slave,  hast 
thou  ? 

Dro.  E.  Your  Worship’s  wife,  my  mistress  at  the  Phoenix ; 
She  that  doth  fast  till  you  come  home  to  dinner, 

And  prays  that  you  will  hie  you  home  to  dinner. 

Ant.  S.  What,  wilt  thou  flout  me  thus  unto  my  face, 
Being  forbid  ?  There,  take  you  that,  sir  knave. 

[Beatmg  hint. 

Dro.  E.  What  mean  you,  sir  ?  for  God’s  sake,  hold  your 
hands ! 

Nay,  an  you  will  not,  sir,  I’ll  take  my  heels.  [Exit. 

Ant .  S.  Upon  my  life,  by  some  device  or  other 
The  villain  is  o’er-raught16  of  all  my  money. 

They  say  this  town  is  full  of  cozenage  ; 

As,  nimble  jugglers  that  deceive  the  eye, 

Dark-working  sorcerers  that  change  the  mind, 

Soul-killing  witches  that  deform  the  body, 

Disguised  cheaters,  prating  mountebanks, 

And  many  such-like  liberties  of  sin  : 17 
If  it  prove  so,  I  will  be  gone  the  sooner. 

I’ll  to  the  Centaur,  to  go  seek  this  slave  : 

I  greatly  fear  my  money  is  not  safe. 

15  “Your  Worship  ”  was  in  common  use  as  a  phrase  of  deference,  mean¬ 
ing  somewhat  less  than  “  your  Honour .” 

16  O’er-raught  is  an  old  form  of  o' er-re ached ;  here  meaning  cheated  or 
defrauded.  To  cozen  had  the  same  meaning ;  hence  cozenage. —  Viliam  and 
knave  are  used  here  in  the  old  English  sense  of  serva?it  or  thrall. 

17  “  Such-like  liberties  of  sin"  probably  means  “  such-like  persons  of  sin¬ 
ful  liberty','  or  of  wicked  license.  —  A  mowitebank  is  what  we  call  a  quack; 
literally  one  who  mounts  a  bank  or  a  bench,  and  brags  of  his  wares  or  his 
skill. 


9o 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  II. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I.  —  Before  the  House  of  Antipholus  of  Ephesus. 

Enter  Adriana  and  Luciana. 

Adr.  Neither  my  husbafid  nor  the  slave  return’d, 

That  in  such  haste  I  sent  to  seek  his  master  ! 

Sure,  Luciana,  it  is  two  o’clock. 

Luc.  Perhaps  some  merchant  hath  invited  him, 

And  from  the  mart  he’s  somewhere  gone  to  dinner. 

Good  sister,  let  us  dine,  and  never  fret : 

A  man  is  master  of  his  liberty  : 

Time  is  their  master ;  and  when  they  see  time. 

They’ll  go  or  come  :  if  so,  be  patient,  sister. 

Adr.  Why  should  their  liberty  than  ours  be  more? 

Luc.  Because  their  business  still  lies  out  o’  door. 

Adr.  Look,  when  I  serve  him  so,  he  takes  it  ill. 

Lite.  O,  know  he  is  the  bridle  of  your  will. 

Adr.  There’s  none  but  asses  will  be  bridled  so. 

Luc.  Why,  headstrong  liberty  is  lash’d  with  woe. 

There’s  nothing  situate  under  Heaven’s  eye 
But  hath  his 1  bound,  in  earth,  in  sea,  in  sky : 

The  beasts,  the  fishes,  and  the  winged  fowls, 

Are  their  males’  subjects  and  at  their  controls  : 

Men,  more  divine,  the  masters  of  all  these. 

Lords  of  the  wide  world  and  wild  watery  seas, 

Indued  with  intellectual  sense  and  souls, 

1  His  for  its,  the  latter  not  being  then  an  admitted  word.  Continually  so 
in  the  Bible ;  as,  “  if  the  salt  have  lost  his  savour,”  and,  “  giveth  to  every 
seed  his  own  body."  In  fact,  its  does  not  once  occur  in  the  Bible  as  printed 
in  1611. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


91 


Of  more  pre-eminence  than  fish  and  fowls, 

Are  masters  to  their  females,  and  their  lords  : 

Then  let  your  will  attend  on  their  accords. 

Adr.  This  servitude  makes  you  to  keep  unwed. 

Luc.  Not  this,  but  troubles  of  the  marriage-bed. 

Adr.  But,  were  you  wedded,  you  would  bear  some  sway. 
Luc.  Ere  I  learn  love,  I’ll  practise  to  obey. 

Adr.  How  if  your  husband  start  some  other  hare?2 
Luc.  Till  he  come  home  again,  I  would  forbear. 

Adr.  Patience  unmoved,  no  marvel  though  she  pause  ;3 
They  can  be  meek  that  have  no  other  cause.4 
A  wretched  soul,  bruised  with  adversity, 

We  bid  be  quiet  when  we  hear  it  cry ; 

But,  were  we  burden’d  with  like  weight  of  pain, 

As  much,  or  more,  we  should  ourselves  complain  : 

So  thou,  that  hast  no  unkind  mate  to  grieve  thee, 

With  urging  helpless  5  patience  wouldst  relieve  me ; 

But,  if  thou  live  to  see  like  right  bereft, 

This  fool-begg’d  patience  6  in  thee  will  be  left. 

Luc.  Well,  I  will  marry  one  day,  but  to  try. 

Here  comes  your  man ;  now  is  your  husband  nigh. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Ephesus. 

Adr.  Say,  is  your  tardy  master  now  at  hand  ? 

2  Meaning,  probably,  "  fly  off  after  some  other  woman.”  So  in  As  You 
Like  It,  iv.  3  :  “  Her  love  is  not  the  hare  that  I  do  hunt.”  Also  in  i  King 
Henry  the  Fourth,  i.  3  :  “  The  blood  more  stirs,  to  rouse  a  lion  than  to  start 
a  hare  A 

3  Meaning,  I  suppose,  that  it  is  no  wonder  if  patience  keeps  quiet  when 
she  has  nothing  to  fret  or  disturb  her. 

4  “  No  other  cause  ”  here  means,  apparently,  “  no  cause  to  be  otherwise.” 

5  Helpless  for  unhelping.  The  Poet  has  it  repeatedly  thus.  So  in  Lu- 
crece  :  “  This  helpless  smoke  of  words  doth  me  no  right.” 

6  A  fool-begged,  patience  is  a  patience  so  nearly  idiotic  as  to  cause  the 
subject  of  it  to  be  ‘‘begged  for  a  fool”;  alluding  to  the  old  custom  of  so¬ 
liciting  the  guardianship  of  fools  or  idiots  with  a  view  to  get  the  manage¬ 
ment  of  their  funds. 


92 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  II. 


Dro.  E.  Nay,  he’s  at  two  hands  with  me,  and  that  my 
two  ears  can  witness. 

Adr.  Say,  didst  thou  speak  with  him?  know’st  thou  his 
mind? 

Dro.  E.  Ay,  ay,  he  told  his  mind  upon  mine  ear : 

Beshrew  his  hand,  I  scarce  could  understand  it.7 

Luc.  Spake  he  so  doubtfully,  thou  couldst  not  feel  his  . 
meaning  ? 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  he  struck  so  plainly,  I  could  too  well  feel 
his  blows ;  and  withal  so  doubtfully,  that  I  could  scarce  un¬ 
derstand  them. 

Adr.  But  say,  I  pr’ythee,  is  he  coming  home  ? 

It  seems  he  hath  great  care  to  please  his  wife. 

Dro.  E.  Why,  mistress,  sure  my  master  is  horn-mad. 

Adr.  Horn-mad,  thou  villain  ! 

Dro.  E.  I  mean  not  cuckold-mad ; 

But,  sure,  he  is  stark  mad. 

When  I  desired  him  to  come  home  to  dinner, 

He  ask’d  me  for  a  thousand  marks  in  gold : 

'Tis  dinner-time ,  quoth  I ;  My  gold,  quoth  he  : 

Your  tneat  doth  burn ,  quoth  I ;  My  gold ,  quoth  he  : 

Will  you  come  home  ?  quoth  I ;  My  gold ',  quoth  he  ; 

Where  is  the  thousand  marks  I  gave  thee ,  villain  ? 

The  pig ,  quoth  I,  is  burn' d ;  My  gold,  quoth  he  : 

My  mistress,  sir,  quoth  I ;  Hang  up  thy  mistress  ! 

I  know  not  thy  mistress  ;  out  on  thy  mistress  ! 

Luc.  Quoth  who? 

Dro.  E.  Quoth  my  master  : 

/  know,  quoth  he,  no  house,  no  wife,  no  mistress. 

So  that  my  errand,  due  unto  my  tongue, 

I  thank  him,  I  bear  home  upon  my  shoulders ; 

7  A  quibble  between  understand  and  stand  under.  So,  in  The  Two 
Gentlemen ,  ii.  5,  Launce  says,  "Why,  stand-under  and  understand  is  all 
one." 


SCENE  I. 


93 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

For,  in  conclusion,  he  did  beat  me  there. 

Ad r.  Go  back  again,  thou  slave,  and  fetch  him  home. 
Dro .  E.  Go  back  again,  and  be  new  beaten  home  1 
For  God’s  sake,  send  some  other  messenger. 

A  dr.  Back,  slave,  or  I  will  break  thy  pate  across. 

Dro.  E.  And  he  will  bless  that  cross  with  other  beating : 
Between  you  I  shall  have  a  holy  head. 

Adr.  Hence,  prating  peasant !  fetch  thy  master  home. 
Dro.  E.  Am  I  so  round  8  with  you  as  you  with  me, 

That  like  a  football  you  do  spurn  me  thus? 

You  spurn  me  hence,  and  he  will  spurn  me  hither : 

If  I  last  in  this  service,  you  must  case  me  in  leather.  [Exit. 
Luc.  Fie,  how  impatience  loureth  in  your  face  ! 

Adr.  His  company  must  do  his  minions  grace, 

Whilst  I  at  home  starve  for  a  merry  look. 

Hath  homely  age  th’  alluring  beauty  took 
From  my  poor  cheek?  then  he  hath  wasted  it : 

Are  my  discourses  dull  ?  barren  my  wit  ? 

If  voluble  and  sharp  discourse  be  marr’d, 

Unkindness  blunts  it  more  than  marble  hard  : 

Do  their  gay  vestments  his  affections  bait  ? 

That’s  not  my  fault,  —  he’s  master  of  my  state  :  9 
What  ruins  are  in  me  that  can  be  found 
By  him  not  ruin’d  ?  then  is  he  the  ground 
Of  my  defeatures.  My  decayed  fair  10 
A  sunny  look  of  his  would  soon  repair  : 

But,  too  unruly  deer,  he  breaks  the  pale, 

And  feeds  from  home  ;  poor  I  am  but  his  stale.11 

8  Round,  was  much  used  for  plain-spoken  ;  hence  the  quibble  here. 

9  State  for  estate  ;  a  common  usage  in  the  Poet’s  time. 

10  Fair  is  here  used  as  a  substantive,  for  beauty.  Repeatedly  so. —  De¬ 
features  is  change  of  features  or  disfigurement. 

11  It  appears  that  stale  was  sometimes  used  for  stalking-horse ,  that  is,  a 
horse  painted  on  stretched  canvas,  which  the  hunter  carried  before  him 
in  order  to  deceive  the  game  till  he  got  near  enough  to  make  sure  of  it. 


94 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  il. 


Luc.  Self- harming  jealousy,  —  fie,  beat  it  hence  ! 

Adr.  Unfeeling  fools  can  with  such  wrongs  dispense.12 
I  know  his  eye  doth  homage  otherwhere ; 

Or  else  what  lets  13  it  but  he  would  be  here? 

Sister,  you  know  he  promised  me  a  chain ;  — 

Would  that  alone  alone  14  he  would  detain, 

So  he  would  keep  fair  quarter  with  his  bed  ! 

I  see  the  jewel  best  enamelled 
Will  lose  his  beauty ;  and  though  gold  bides  still 
The  triers’  touch,  yet  often-touching  will 
Wear  gold  :  and  so' a  man,  that  hath  a  name, 

By  falsehood  and  corruption  doth  it  shame. 

Since  that  my  beauty  cannot  please  his  eye, 

I’ll  weep  what’s  left  away,  and  weeping  die. 

Luc .  How  many  fond  fools  serve  mad  jealousy  !  [. Exeunt . 


Scene  II.  —  The  Mart. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Syracuse. 

Ant.  S.  The  gold  I  gave  to  Dromio  is  laid  up 
Safe  at  the  Centaur ;  and  the  heedful  slave 
Is  wander’d  forth,  in  care  to  seek  me  out. 

By  computation  and  mine  host’s  report, 

I  could  not  speak  with  Dromio  since  at  first 
I  sent  him  from  the  mart.  See,  here  he  comes.  — 

Hence  it  came  to  signify  pretence,  mask,  or  cover.  And  so  here,  Adriana 
probably  means  that  she  serves  but  as  a  cover  for  her  husband,  behind  or 
beneath  which  he  hunts  such  game  as  he  prefers. 

12  Dispense  seems  to  be  used  rather  oddly,  not  to  say  loosely,  here, —  in 
the  sense  of  put  tip  with;  which,  however,  comes  pretty  near  one  of  its  old 
meanings,  —  atone  for  or  compensate. 

13  Lets,  here,  is  the  old  word,  now  obsolete,  meaning  hinders. 

14  Alone  repeated  in  slightly-different  senses  for  the  sake  of  a  certain 
jingle,  apparently.  So  in  the  Poet’s  Lucrece  :  “But  I  alone  alone  must  sit 
and  pine.” 


SCENE  II. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


95 


Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse . 

How  now,  sir  !  is  your  merry  humour  alter’d  ? 

As  you  love  strokes,  so  jest  with  me  again. 

You  know  no  Centaur?  you  received  no  gold? 

Your  mistress  sent  to  have  me  home  to  dinner? 

My  house  was  at  the  Phoenix?  Wast  thou  mad, 

That  thus  so  madly  thou  didst  answer  me  ? 

Dro.  S.  What  answer,  sir  ?  when  spake  I  such  a  word  ? 
Ant.  S.  Even  now,  even  here,  not  half  an  hour  since. 
Dro.  S.  I  did  not  sec  you  since  you  sent  me  hence, 
Home  to  the  Centaur,  with  the  gold  you  gave  me. 

Ant.  S.  Villain,  thou  didst  deny  the  gold’s  receipt, 

And  told’st  me  of  a  mistress  and  a  dinner ; 

For  which,  I  hope,  thou  felt’st  I  was  displeased. 

Dro.  S.  I’m  glad  to  see  you  in  this  merry  vein  : 

What  means  this  jest?  I  pray  you,  master,  tell  me. 

Ant.  S.  Yea,  dost  thou  jeer  and  flout  me  in  the  teeth? 
Think’st  thou  I  jest?  Hold,  take  thou  that,  and  that. 

\B eating  him. 

Dro.  S.  Hold,  sir,  for  God’s  sake  !  now  your  jest  is  earnest : 
Upon  what  bargain  do  you  give  it  me  ? 

Ant.  S.  Because  that  I  familiarly  sometimes 
Do  use  you  for  my  fool,  and  chat  with  you, 

Your  sauciness  will  jet  upon1  my  love, 

And  make  a  common  2  of  my  serious  hours. 

When  the  Sun  shines  let  foolish  gnats  make  sport, 

But  creep  in  crannies  when  he  hides  his  beams. 

1  The  Poet  several  times  has  jet  upon  in  the  sense  of  encroach  upon.  So 
in  King  Richard  III.,  ii.  4:  “  Insulting  tyranny  begins  to  jet  upon  the  inno¬ 
cent  and  aweless  throne.'’  Also  in  the  play  of  Sir  Thomas  More ,  quoted 
by  Dyce :  “  It  is  hard  when  Englishmens  pacience  must  be  thus  jetted  on 
by  straungers." 

2  Common  is  land  unenclosed,  and  so  made  free  with  or  used  in  common 
by  the  people,  whether  for  pleasure,  play,  or  pasturage. 


96 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  II. 


If  you  will  jest  with  me,  know  my  aspect, 

And  fashion  your  demeanor  to  my  looks, 

Or  I  will  beat  this  method  in  your  sconce. 

Di'o .  S.  Sconce  call  you  it  ?  so  you  would  leave  battering, 
I  had  rather  have  it  a  head :  an  you  use  these  blows  long, 
I  must  get  a  sconce  for  my  head,  and  ensconce  it  too ;  or 
else  I  shall  seek  my  wit  in  my  shoulders.  But,  I  pray,  sir, 
why  am  I  beaten  ? 

Ant.  S,  Dost  thou  not  know? 

Dro.  S.  Nothing,  sir,  but  that  I  am  beaten. 

Ant.  S.  Shall  I  tell  you  why? 

Dro.  S.  Ay,  sir,  and  wherefore ;  for  they  say  every  why 
hath  a  wherefore. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  first,  for  flouting  me  ;  and  then,  wherefore,  — 
For  urging  it  the  second  time  to  me. 

Dro.  S.  Was  there  ever  any  man  thus  beaten  out  of  season, 
When  in  the  why  and  the  wherefore  is  neither  rhyme  nor 
reason  ? 

Well,  sir,  I  thank  you. 

Ant.  S.  Thank  me,  sir  !  for  what? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  for  this  something  that  you  gave  me 
for  nothing. 

Ant.  S.  I’ll  make  you  amends  next,  to  give  you  nothing 
for  something.  But  say,  sir,  is  it  dinner-time  ? 

Dro.  S.  No,  sir :  I  think  the  meat  wants  that  I  have. 

Ant.  S.  In  good  time,  sir;  what’s  that? 

Dro.  S.  Basting. 

Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  then  ’twill  be  dry. 

Dro.  S.  If  it  be,  sir,  I  pray  you,  eat  none  of  it. 

Ant.  S.  Your  reason  ? 

Dro.  S.  Lest  it  make  you  choleric,3  and  purchase  me 
another  dry  basting. 

3  Such  was  thought  to  be  the  effect  of  meats  so  much  done  as  to  be 
undone.  In  the  Tamitig  of  the  Ski'ew,  iv.  I,  Petruchio  sends  off  the  meat 


SCENE  II. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


97 


Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  learn  to  jest  in  good  time  :  there’s  a 
time  for  all  things. 

Dro.  S.  I  durst  have  denied  that,  before  you  were  so 
choleric. 

Ant.  S.  By  what  rule,  sir? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  by  a  rule  as  plain  as  the  plain  bald 
pate  of  father  Time  himself. 

Ant.  S.  Let’s  hear  it. 

Dro.  S.  There’s  no  time  for  a  man  to  recover  his  hair  that 
grows  bald  by  nature. 

Ant.  S.  May  he  not  do  it  by  fine  and  recovery?4 
Dro.  S.  Yes,  to  pay  a  fine  for  a  periwig,  and  recover  the 
lost  hair  of  another  man. 

Ant.  S.  Why  is  Time  such  a  niggard  of  hair,  being,  as  it 

is,  so  plentiful  an  excrement  ?  5 

Dro.  S.  Because  it  is  a  blessing  that  he  bestows  on  beasts  : 
and  what  he  hath  scanted  men  in  hair,  he  hath  given  them 
in  wit. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  but  there’s  many  a  man  hath  more  hair 
than  wit.6 

Dro.  S.  Not  a  man  of  those  but  he  hath  the  wit  to  lose 
his  hair.7 

because  “  ’twas  burnt  and  dried  away ;  and  I  expressly  am  forbid  to  touch 

it,  for  it  engenders  choler." 

4  Fine  a?id  recovery  is  the  name  of  an  old  legal  process,  now  out  of  use, 
for  testing  and  assuring  the  tenure  of  property.  Ritson,  a  lawyer,  describes 
it  as  “  the  strongest  assurance  known  to  English  law.” 

5  Excreme?it  from  e xcrescere,  to  grow  forth,  was  used  of  whatever  seems 
to  vegetate  from  the  body,  such  as  hair,  beard,  and  nails. 

6  This  expression  seems  to  have  been  proverbial.  It  is  well  illustrated  in 
the  following  lines,  1656,  upon  Suckling’s  Aglaura,  which  was  printed  in 
folio : 

This  great  voluminous  pamphlet  may  be  said 
To  be  like  one  that  hath  more  hair  than  head; 

More  excrement  than  body :  —  trees  which  sprout 
With  broadest  leaves  have  still  the  smallest  fruit. 

7  Alluding  to  the  loss  of  hair  by  what  was  called  the  French  disease. 


98 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  II. 


Ant.  S.  Why,  thou  didst  conclude  hairy  men  plain  dealers 
without  wit. 

Dro.  S.  The  plainer  dealer,  the  sooner  lost :  yet  he  loseth 
it  in  a  kind  of  jollity. 

Ant.  S.  For  what  reason? 

Dro.  S.  For  two  ;  and  sound  ones  too. 

Ant.  S.  Nay,  not  sound,  I  pray  you. 

Dro.  S.  Sure  ones,  then. 

Ant.  S.  Nay,  not  sure,  in  a  thing  falling. 

Dro.  S.  Certain  ones,  then. 

Ant.  S.  Name  them. 

Dro.  S.  The  one,  to  save  the  money  that  he  spends  in 
trimming ;  the  other,  that  at  dinner  they  should  not  drop  in 
his  porridge. 

Ant.  S.  You  would  all  this  time  have  proved  there  is  no 
time  for  all  things. 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  and  did,  sir ;  namely,  no  time  to  recover 
hair  lost  by  nature. 

Ant.  S.  But  your  reason  was  not  substantial,  why  there  is 
no  time  to  recover. 

Dro.  S.  Thus  I  mend  it :  Time  himself  is  bald,  and  there¬ 
fore  to  the  world’s  end  will  have  bald  followers. 

Ant.  S.  I  knew  ’twould  be  a  bald  conclusion  : 

But,  soft !  who  wafts  8  us  yonder  ? 

Enter  Adriana  and  Luciana. 

A  dr.  Ay,  ay,  Antipholus,  look  strange  and  frown  : 

Some  other  mistress  hath  thy  sweet  aspects ; 

I  am  not  Adriana  nor  thy  wife. 

The  time  was  once  when  thou  unurged  wouldst  vow 
That  never  words  were  music  to  thine  ear, 

That  never  object  pleasing  in  thine  eye, 

That  never  touch  well-welcome  to  thy  hand, 

8  To  waft  is  to  beckon  with  the  hand. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


Ant.  of  S.  ' 1  Plead  you  to  me,  fair  dame?  I  know  you  not: 
In  Ephesus  I  am  but  two  hours  old, 

As  strange  unto  your  town  as  to  your  talk  ;  ’ 


The  Comedy  of  Errors 


Act  2,  Scene  2 


Page  99, 


SCENE  II. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


99 


That  never  meat  sweet-savour’d  in  thy  taste, 

Unless  I  spake,  or  look’d,  or  touch’d,  or  carved  to  thee. 
How  comes  it  now,  my  husband,  O,  how  comes  it, 

That  thou  art  thus  estranged  from  thyself  ? 

Thyself  I  call  it,  being  strange  to  me, 

That,  undividable,  incorporate, 

Am  better  than  thy  dear  seifs  better  part. 

Ah,  do  not  tear  away  thyself  from  me  ! 

For  know,  my  love,  as  easy  mayst  thou  fall 9 
A  drop  of  water  in  the  breaking  gulf, 

And  take  unmingled  thence  that  drop  again, 

Without  addition  or  diminishing, 

As  take  from  me  thyself,  and  not  me  too. 

How  dearly  would  it  touch  thee  to  the  quick, 

Shouldst  thou  but  hear  I  were  licentious, 

And  that  this  body,  consecrate  to  thee, 

By  ruffian  lust  should  be  contaminate  ! 

Wouldst  thou  not  spit  at  me  and  spurn  at  me, 

And  hurl  the  name  of  husband  in  my  face, 

And  tear  the  stain’d  skin  off  my  harlot-brow, 

And  from  my  false  hand  cut  the  wedding-ring, 

And  break  it  with  a  deep-divorcing  vow  ? 

I  know  thou  canst ;  and  therefore  see  thou  do  it. 

I  am  possess’d  with  an  adulterate  blot ; 

My  blood  is  mingled  with  the  grime  of  lust : 

For  if  we  two  be  one,  and  thou  play  false, 

I  do  digest  the  poison  of  thy  flesh, 

Being  strumpeted  by  thy  contagion. 

Keep,  then,  fair  league  and  truce  with  thy  true  bed ; 

I  live  unstain  d,  thou  undishonoured. 

Ant.  S.  Plead  you  to  me,  fair  dame?  I  know  you  not: 
In  Ephesus  I  am  but  two  hours  old, 

As  strange  unto  your  town  as  to  your  talk ; 

9  Fall  as  a  transitive  verb  ;  let  fall.  Often  so. 


IOO 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  II. 


Who,  every  word  by  all  my  wit  being  scann’d, 

Want  wit,  in  all,  one  word  to  understand. 

Luc.  Fie,  brother  !  how  the  world  is  changed  with  you  ! 
When  were  you  wont  to  use  my  sister  thus  ? 

She  sent  for  you  by  Dromio  home  to  dinner. 

Ant.  S.  By  Dromio  ! 

Dro.  S.  By  me  ! 

Adr.  By  thee ;  and  this  thou  didst  return  from  him,  — 
That  he  did  buffet  thee,  and,  in  his  blows, 

Denied  my  house  for  his,  me  for  his  wife. 

Ant.  S.  Did  you  converse,  sir,  with  this  gentlewoman  ? 
What  is  the  course  and  drift  of  your  compact  ? 

Dro.  S.  I,  sir  !  I  never  saw  her  till  this  time. 

Ant.  S.  Villain,  thou  liest ;  for  even  her  very  words 
Didst  thou  deliver  to  me  on  the  mart. 

Dro.  S.  I  never  spake  with  her  in  all  my  life. 

Ant.  S.  How  can  she  thus,  then,  call  us  by  our  names, 
Unless  it  be  by  inspiration  ? 

Adr.  How  ill  agrees  it  with  your  gravity 
To  counterfeit  thus  grossly  with  your  slave, 

Abetting  him  to  thwart  me  in  my  mood  ! 

Be  it  my  wrong  you  are  from  me  exempt,10 
But  wrong  not  that  wrong  with  a  more  contempt. 

Come,  I  will  fasten  on  this  sleeve  of  thine  : 

Thou  art  an  elm,  my  husband,  —  I  a  vine,11 
Whose  weakness,  married  to  thy  stronger  state, 

Makes  me  with  thy  strength  to  communicate  : 


10  An  odd  use  of  exempt ,  meaning  parted ,  separated ,  or  taken  away.  So 
in  a  letter  from  the  Earl  of  Nottingham  in  favour  of  Edward  Alleyn,  cited 
by  Malone :  “  Situate  in  a  very  remote  and  exempt  place  near  Goulding 
Lane.” 

11  So  in  Paradise  Lost ,  v.  215  :  “  Or  they  led  the  vine  to  wed  her  elm  : 
she,  spoused,  about  him  twines  her  marriageable  arms.”  Douce  remarks 
that  there  is  something  extremely  beautiful  in  making  the  vine  the  lawful 
spouse  of  the  elm,  and  the  parasite  plants  here  named  its  concubines. 


SCENE  II. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


IOI 


If  aught  possess  thee  from  me,  it  is  dross, 

Usurping  ivy,  brier,  or  idle  12  moss ; 

Who,  all  for  want  of  pruning,  with  intrusion 
Infect  thy  sap,  and  live  on  thy  confusion. 

Ant.  S.  [ Aside. To  me  she  speaks ;  she  means  me  for 
her  theme  : 

What,  was  I  married  to  her  in  my  dream? 

Or  sleep  I  now,  and  think  I  hear  all  this  ? 

What  error  drives  our  eyes  and  ears  amiss  ? 

Until  I  know  this  sure  uncertainty, 

I’ll  entertain  the  offer’d  fallacy. 

Luc.  Dromio,  go  bid  the  servants  spread  for  dinner. 

Dro.  S.  O,  for  my  beads  !  I  cross  me  for  a  sinner. 

This  is  the  fairy  land  ;  —  O  spite  of  spites  !  — 

We  talk  with  none  but  goblins,  elves,  and  sprites : 

If  we  obey  them  not,  this  will  ensue,  — 

They’ll  suck  our  breath,  or  pinch  us  black  and  blue. 

Luc.  Why  pratest  thou  to  thyself,  and  answer’st  not? 
Dromio,  thou  drone,  thou  snail,  thou  slug,  thou  sot ! 

Dro.  S.  I  am  transformed,  master,  am  I  not? 

Ant.  S.  I  think  thou  art  in  mind,  and  so  am  I. 

Dro.  S.  Nay,  master,  both  in  mind  and  in  my  shape. 

Ant.  S.  Thou  hast  thine  own  form. 

Dro.  S.  No,  I  am  an  ape. 

Luc.  If  thou  art  changed  to  aught,  ’tis  to  an  ass. 

Dro.  S.  ’Tis  true  ;  she  rides  me,  and  I  long  for  grass. 

’Tis  so,  I  am  an  ass ;  else  it  could  never  be 
But  I  should  know  her  as  well  as  she  knows  me. 

Adr.  Come,  come,  no  longer  will  I  be  a  fool, 

To  put  the  finger  in  the  eye  and  weep, 

Whilst  man  and  master  laugh  my  woes  to  scorn.  — 

Come,  sir,  to  dinner.  — Dromio,  keep  the  gate. — 

12  Idle  is  unfruitful  or  useless ;  as  in  Othello ,  i.  3:  “  Of  antres  vast  and 
deserts  idle." 


102 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  III. 


Husband,  I’ll  dine  above  with  you  to-day, 

And  shrive  you 13  of  a  thousand  idle  pranks.  — 

Sirrah,  if  any  ask  you  for  your  master, 

Say  he  dines  forth,  and  let  no  creature  enter.  — 

Come,  sister.  —  Dromio,  play  the  porter  well. 

Ant.  S.  [Aside. Am  I  in  Earth,  in  Heaven,  or  in  Hell? 
Sleeping  or  waking?  mad  or  well-advised? 

Known  unto  these,  and  to  myself  disguised  ! 

I’ll  say  as  they  say,  and  pers^ver  so, 

And  in  this  mist  at  all  adventures  go. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  shall  I  be  porter  at  the  gate  ? 

A  dr.  Ay ; 

And  let  none  enter,  lest  I  break  your  pate. 

Luc.  Come,  come,  Antipholus,  we  dine  too  late. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.  Before  the  House  of  Antipholus  of  Ephesus. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephesus,  Dromio  of  Ephesus,  Angelo, 

and  Balthazar. 

Ant.  E.  Good  Signior  Angelo,  you  must  excuse  us  all ; 
My  wife  is  shrewish  when  I  keep  not  hours  : 

Say  that  I  linger’d  with  you  at  your  shop 
To  see  the  making  of  her  carcanet,1 
And  that  to-morrow  you  will  bring  it  home. 

But  here’s  a  villain  that  would  face  me  down 
He  met  me  on  the  mart,  and  that  I  beat  him,2 

13  “  Shrive  you  ”  is  confess  you,  or  call  on  you  to  confess.  To  impose 
penance  is  one  part  of  a  confessor’s  office. 

1  A  carcanet  is  a  necklace  ;  later  in  the  play  it  is  called  a  chain. 

2  “  Would  convince  me  that  he  met  me  on  the  mart,  and  that  I  beat  him," 
is  the  meaning. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


103 


And  charged  him  with  a  thousand  marks  in  gold, 

And  that  I  did  deny  my  wife  and  house.  — 

Thou  drunkard,  thou,  what  didst  thou  mean  by  this  ? 

Dro.  E.  Say  what  you  will,  sir,  but  I  know  what  I  know ; 
That  you  beat  me  at  the  mart,  I  have  your  hand  to  show : 

If  the  skin  were  parchment,  and  the  blows  you  gave  were  ink, 
Your  own  handwriting  would  tell  you  what  I  think. 

Ant.  E.  I  think  thou  art  an  ass. 

Dro.  E.  Marry,3  so  it  doth  appear 

By  the  wrongs  I  suffer  and  the  blows  I  bear. 

I  should  kick,  being  kick’d  ;  and,  being  at  that  pass, 

You  would  keep  from  my  heels,  and  beware  of  an  ass. 

Ant.  E.  You  are  sad,  Signior  Balthazar :  pray  God  our 
cheer 

May  answer  my  good  will  and  your  good  welcome  here  ! 
Eat.  I  hold  your  dainties  cheap,  sir,  and  your  welcome  dear. 
Ant.  E.  O,  Signior  Balthazar,  either  at  flesh  or  fish, 

A  table  full  of  welcome  makes  scarce  one  dainty  dish. 

Bat.  Good  meat,  sir,  is  common  ;  that  every  churl  affords. 
Ant.  E.  And  welcome  more  common  ;  for  that’s  nothing 
but  words. 

Bat.  Small  cheer  and  great  welcome  makes  a  merry  feast. 
Ant.  E.  Ay,  to  a  niggardly  host  and  more  sparing  guest : 
But  though  my  cates  4  be  mean,  take  them  in  good  part ; 
Better  cheer  may  you  have,  but  not  with  better  heart. 

But,  soft ! 5  my  door  is  lock’d.  —  Go  bid  them  let  us  in. 

Dro.  E.  Maud,  Bridget,  Marian,  Cicely,  Gillian,  Jin  ! 

3  Marry  was  much  used  as  a  general  intensive,  meaning  indeed,  verily, 
to  be  sure.  It  grew  into  use  from  a  custom  of  swearing  or  affirming  by  the 
Virgin  Mary ;  much  the  same  as  heracle  and  edepol  in  Latin ;  the  latter 
being  originally  an  oath  by  Castor  and  Pollux. 

4  Cates  is  an  old  form  for  cakes, but  sometimes  used,  as  here,  in  the  wider 
sense  of  viands  or  food,  especially  of  dainties. 

5  Soft /  was  a  common  exclamative  meaning  about  the  same  as  stay,  hold, 
or  not  too  fast. 


104 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  HI. 


Dro.  S .  [  Within .]  Mome,  malt-horse,  capon,  coxcomb, 
idiot,  patch  ! 6 

Either  get  thee  from  the  door,  or  sit  down  at  the  hatch. 

Dost  thou  cbnjure  for  wenches,  that  thou  call’st  for  such 
store, 

When  one  is  one  too  many?  Go  get  thee  from  the  door. 

Dro.  E.  What  patch  is  made  our  porter?  My  master 
stays  in  the  street. 

Dro.  S.  [  Within .]  Let  him  walk  from  whence  he  came, 
lest  he  catch  cold  on’s  feet. 

Ant.  E.  Who  talks  within  there?  ho,  open  the  door  ! 

Dro.  S.  [  Within .]  Right,  sir  ;  I’ll  tell  you  when,  an  you’ll 
tell  me  wherefore. 

Ant.  E.  Wherefore  !  for  my  dinner :  I  have  not  dined 
to-day. 

Dro.  S.  [  Within.]  Nor  to-day  here  you  must  not ;  come 
again  when  you  may. 

Ant.  E.  What  art  thou  that  keep’st  me  out  from  the  house 
I  owe?7 

Dro.  S.  [  Within.']  The  porter  for  this  time,  and  my 
name  is  Dromio. 

Dro.  E.  O  villain,  thou  hast  stol’n  both  mine  office  and 
my  name  ! 

The  one  ne’er  got  me  credit,  the  other  mickle  blame. 

If  thou  hadst  been  Dromio  to-day  in  my  place, 

Thou  wouldst  have  changed  thy  face  for  a  name,  or  thy  name 
for  a  face. 


6  All  these  are  old  terms  of  abuse,  forming  a  part  of  that  extensive  vo¬ 
cabulary  called  Billingsgate,  which  was  the  name  of  a  place  in  London 
where  loud  and  coarse  women  sold  fish.  Mome,  of  uncertain  origin,  comes 
pretty  near  blockhead.  Alalt-horse  is  a  brewer  s  horse,  a  dull,  dumpish 
beast.  Capon  is  a  rooster  emasculated,  and  fatted  for  the  table.  Patch, 
applied  to  the  “  allowed  Fool,”  on  account  of  motley  or  patchwork  dress, 
came  to  be  used  of  a  natural  fool. 

7  Owe,  a  shortened  form  of  owen,  is  own  or  possess. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


105 


Luce.  Within.]  What  a  coil8  is  there!  Dromio,  who 
are  those  at  the  gate  ? 

Dro.  E.  Let  my  master  in,  Luce. 

Luce.  [  Within. ]  Faith,  no  ;  he  comes  too  late  ; 

And  so  tell  your  master. 

Dro.  E.  O  Lord,  I  must  laugh  !  — 

Have  at  you  with  a  proverb  :  Shall  I  set  in  my  staff? 

Luce.  [  Within. ]  Llave  at  you  with  another ;  that’s, 
When  ?  can  you  tell? 

Dro.  S.  [  Within.']  If  thy  name  be  call’d  Luce,  —  Luce, 
thou  hast  answer’d  him  well.9 
Ant.  E.  Do  you  hear,  you  minion?  you’ll  let  us  in,  I 
know. 

Luce.  [  Within.]  I  thought  to  have  ask’d  you. 

Dro.  S.  [  Within.]  And  you  said  no. 

Dro.  E.  So,  come,  help  !  Well  struck  !  there  was  blow 
for  blow. 

Ant.  E.  Thou  baggage,  let  me  in. 

Luce.  [  Within.]  Can  you  tell  for  whose  sake  ? 

Dro.  E.  Master,  knock  the  door  hard. 

Luce.  [  Within.]  Let  him  knock  till  it  ache. 

Ant.  E.  You’ll  cry  for  this,  minion,  if  I  beat  the  door  down. 
Luce.  [  Within.]  What  needs  all  that,  and  a  pair  of 
stocks  10  in  the  town  ? 

Adr.  [  Within.]  Who  is  that  at  the  door  that  keeps  all 
this  noise  ? 

Dro.  S.  [  Within.]  By  my  troth,  your  town  is  troubled 
with  unruly  boys. 

8  Coil  is  hubbub ,  rumpus,  fuss ;  often  so  used  in  the  Poet’s  time. 

9  Luce  is  an  old  name  for  the  fish  called  pike ;  which  seems  to  be  the 
turning-point  of  the  quibble  here.  Perhaps  the  sense  of  thrusting  with  a 
pike  is  implied,  as  Luce  has  aptly  met  proverb  with  proverb. 

10  “  A  pair  of  stocks  ”  was  a  machine  in  which  certain  offenders  were 
fastened  by  the  ankles,  for  punishment;  the  offender  being  forced  to  sit 
with  his  legs  in  a  horizontal  position. 


106  THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  ACT  III. 

Ant.  E.  Are  you  there,  wife  ?  you  might  have  come  before. 

A  dr.  [  Within.]  Your  wife,  sir  knave  !  go  get  you  from 
the  door. 

Dro.  E.  If  you  went  in  pain,  master,  this  knave  would 
go  sore. 

Ang.  Here  is  neither  cheer,  sir,  nor  welcome  :  we  would 
fain  have  either. 

Bal.  In  debating  which  was  best,  we  shall  part11  with 
neither. 

Dro.  E.  They  stand  at  the  door,  master ;  bid  them  wel¬ 
come  hither. 

Ant.  E.  There  is  something  in  the  wind,  that  we  cannot 
get  in. 

Dro.  E.  You  would  say  so,  master,  if  your  garments  were 
thin. 

Your  cake  is  warm  within ;  you  stand  here  in  the  cold  : 

It  would  make  a  man  mad  as  a  buck,  to  be  so  bought  and 
sold.12 

Ant.  E.  Go  fetch  me  something  :  I’ll  break  ope  the  gate. 

Dro.  S.  [  Within.]  Break  any  breaking  here,  and  I’ll 
break  your  knave’s  pate. 

Dro.  E.  A  man  may  break  a  word  with  you,  sir ;  and 
words  are  but  wind  ; 

Ay,  and  break  it  in  your  face,  so  he  break  it  not  behind. 

Dro.  S.  [  Within.']  It  seems  thou  want’st  breaking :  out 
upon  thee,  hind  ! 

Dro.  E.  Here’s  too  much  out  upon  thee  !  I  pray  thee, 
let  me  in. 

Dro.  S.  [  Within.]  Ay,  when  fowls  have  no  feathers,  and 
fish  have  no  fin. 

Ant.  E.  Well,  I’ll  break  in.  —  Go  borrow  me  a  crow. 

11  Part  for  depart ;  the  two  being  formerly  used  indiscriminately. 

12  This  phrase,  now  so  common,  for  tricked ,  taken  in,  or  hoaxed,  is  here 

seen  to  be  as  old  as  Shakespeare’s  time,  at  least. 


SCENE  i.  THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  IO 7 

A 

Dro.  E.  A  crow  without  feather ;  master,  mean  you  so  ? 
For  a  fish  without  a  fin,  there’s  a  fowl  without  a  feather : 

If  a  crow  help  us  in,  sirrah,  we’ll  pluck  a  crow  together.13 
Ant.  E.  Go  get  thee  gone  ;  fetch  me  an  iron  crow. 

Bat.  Have  patience,  sir ;  O,  let  it  not  be  so  ! 

Herein  you  war  against  your  reputation, 

And  draw  within  the  compass  of  suspect 14 
Th’  unviolated  honour  of  your  wife. 

Once  this,15  —  your  long  experience  of  her  wisdom, 

Her  sober  virtue,  years,  and  modesty, 

Plead  on  her  part  some  cause  to  you  unknown ; 

And  doubt  not,  sir,  but  she  will  well  excuse 
Why  at  this  time  the  doors  are  made  16  against  you. 

Be  ruled  by  me  :  depart  in  patience, 

And  let  us  to  the  Tiger 17  all  to  dinner ; 

And  about  evening  come  yourself  alone 
To  know  the  reason  of  this  strange  restraint. 

If  by  strong  hand  you  offer  to  break  in 
Now  in  the  stirring  passage  of  the  day, 

A  vulgar  comment  will  be  made  of  it ; 

And  that  supposed  by  the  common  rout 
Against  your  yet  ungalled  estimation, 

That  may  with  foul  intrusion  enter  in, 

And  dwell  upon  your  grave  when  you  are  dead ; 

For  slander  lives  upon  succession, 

For  ever  housed  where  it  gets  possession. 

13  This  Dromio  seems  to  be  in  a  flux  of  proverbs.  To  “  pluck  a  crow 
together  ”  was  a  proverbial  phrase  for  having  a  quarrel  or  a  fight. 

14  Another  instance  like  that  of  dispose.  See  page  8o,  note  4. 

15  Once  this  is  plainly  equivalent,  here,  to  this  is  enough.  So  in  Much 
Ado,  i.  1 :  “  Look,  what  will  serve,  is  fit :  'tis  once  thou  lovest ;  and  I  will  fit 
thee  with  the  remedy.”  And  in  Coriolanus,  ii.  3 :  “  Once,  if  he  do  require 
our  voices ;  we  ought  not  to  deny  him.” 

16  To  “  make  the  doors  ”  is  to  fasten  them.  Still  so  used  sometimes, 
l"  Tiger ,  like  Centaur  and  Phcenix  before,  for  the  name  of  an  inn. 


io8 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  ill, 


Ant.  E.  You  have  prevail’d  :  I  will  depart  in  quiet, 
And,  in  despite  of  mirth,18  mean  to  be  merry. 

I  know  a  wench  of  excellent  discourse, 

Pretty  and  witty  ;  wild,  and  yet,  too,  gentle  : 

There  will  we  dine.  This  woman  that  I  mean, 

My  wife  —  but,  I  protest,  without  desert  — 

Hath  oftentimes  upbraided  me  withal : 

To  her  will  we  to  dinner.  —  Get  you  home, 

And  fetch  the  chain ;  by  this  I  know  ’tis  made  : 

Bring  it,  I  pray  you,  to  the  Porpentine  ; 19 

For  there’s  the  house  :  that  chain  will  I  bestow  — 

Be  it  for  nothing  but  to  spite  my  wife  — 

Upon  mine  hostess  there  :  good  sir,  make  haste. 

Since  mine  own  doors  refuse  to  entertain  me, 

I’ll  knock  elsewhere,  to  see  if  they’ll  disdain  me. 

Ang.  I’ll  meet  you  at  that  place  some  hour  hence. 

Ant.  E.  Do  so.  This  jest  shall  cost  me  some  expense. 


\_Exeunt. 


9 


Enter ,  from  the  House ,  Luciana  and  Antipholus  of  Syracuse. 

Luc.  And  may  it  be  that  you  have  quite  forgot 
A  husband’s  office  ?  shall,  Antipholus, 


Even  in  the  spring  of  love,  thy  love-springs  20  rot  ?  > 

Shall  love,  in  building,  grow  so  ruinous  ? 

18  One  might  think  this  ought  to  be  “  in  despite  of  grief.”  But  he  proba¬ 
bly  means  that,  to  spite  the  mirth  his  wife  is  having  with  another  man, 
he  will  go  and  be  merry  with  another  woman.  Heath  explains  it  thus : 
“  Though  mirth  hath  withdrawn  herself  from  me,  and  seems  determined  to 
avoid  me,  yet,  in  despite  of  her,  and  whether  she  will  or  not,  I  am  resolved 
to  be  merry.” 

19  Porpentine  is  the  old  form,  always  used  by  Shakespeare,  for  porcupine . 
Here  it  is  the  name  of  an  inn.  —  By  this ,  in  the  line  before,  is  by  this  time. 

20  Love-springs  are  the  buds  of  love ,  or  rather  the  young  shoots.  So  in 
Venus  and  Adonis :  “  This  canker  that  eats  up  love’s  tender  spring .”  And 
in  Baret’s  Alvearie :  “  The  spring ,  or  young  shoots  that  grow  out  of  the 
stems  or  roots  of  trees.” 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


IO9 


If  you  did  wed  my  sister  for  her  wealth, 

Then  for  her  wealth’s  sake  use  her  with  more  kindness : 

Or  if  you  like  elsewhere,  do  it  by  stealth ; 

Muffle  your  false  love  with  some  show  of  blindness  : 

Let  not  my  sister  read  it  in  your  eye ; 

Be  not  thy  tongue  thy  own  shame’s  orator ; 

Look  sweet,  speak  fair,  become  disloyalty ; 21 
Apparel  vice  like  virtue’s  harbinger; 

Bear  a  fair  presence,  though  your  heart  be  tainted ; 

Teach  sin  the  carriage  of  a  holy  saint ; 

Be  secret-false  :  what  need  she  be  acquainted  ? 

What  simple  thief  brags  of  his  own  attaint? 

’Tis  double  wrong,  to  truant  with  your  bed, 

And  let  her  read  it  in  thy  looks  at  board  : 

Shame  hath  a  bastard  fame,  well  managed ; 

Ill  deeds  are  doubled  with  an  evil  word. 

Alas,  poor  women  !  make  us  but  believe, 

Being  compact  of  credit,22  that  you  love  us  ; 

Though  others  have  the  arm,  show  us  the  sleeve ; 

We  in  your  motion  turn,  and  you  may  move  us. 

Then,  gentle  brother,  get  you  in  again ; 

Comfort  my  sister,  cheer  her,  call  her  wife  : 

’Tis  holy  sport,  to  be  a  little  vain,23 

When  the  sweet  breath  of  flattery  conquers  strife. 

Ant.  S.  Sweet  mistress,  —  what  your  name  is  else,  I  know 
not, 

Nor  by  what  wonder  you  do  hit  of 24  mine,  — 

21  To  “  become  disloyalty”  is  to  make  it  look  becoming. 

22  "  Compact  of  credit"  is  composed,  framed,  or  made  up  of  credulity.  So 
in  A  Midsummer,  v.  i :  “  The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet  are  of  imag¬ 
ination  all  compact .” 

23  Vain  here  means  light  of  tongue ;  speaking  falsely  or  insincerely,  as 
in  “  the  sweet  breath  of  flattery.” 

24  Of  and  on  were  used  indifferently  in  such  cases.  Shakespeare  has 
many  instances. 


I  IO 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  III 


Less  in  your  knowledge  and  your  grace  you  show  not 
Than  our  earth’s  wonder;  more  than  earth  divine. 

Teach  me,  dear  creature,  how  to  think  and  speak ; 

Lay  open  to  my  earthy-gross  conceit, 

Smother’d  in  errors,  feeble,  shallow,  weak, 

The  folded  meaning  of  your  words’  deceit. 

Against  my  soul’s  pure  truth  why  labour  you 
To  make  it  wander  in  an  unknown  field  ? 

Are  you  a  god  ?  would  you  create  me  new  ? 

Transform  me,  then,  and  to  your  power  I’ll  yield. 

But  if  that  I  am  I,  then  well  I  know 
Your  weeping  sister  is  no  wife  of  mine, 

Nor  to  her  bed  no  homage  do  I  owe  : 

Far  more,  far  more  to  you  do  I  decline.25 
O,  train  me  not,  sweet  mermaid,  with  thy  note, 

To  drown  me  in  thy  sister’s  flood  of  tears  : 

Sing,  siren,  for  thyself,  and  I  will  dote  : 

Spread  o’er  the  silver  waves  thy  golden  hairs, 

And  as  a  bed  I’ll  take  them,  and  there  lie  ; 

And,  in  that  glorious  supposition,  think 
He  gains  by  death  that  hath  such  means  to  die  : 

Let  Love  be  light,  being  drowned  if  she  sink  ! 26 
Luc.  What,  are  you  mad,  that  you  do  reason  so  ? 

Ant.  S.  Not  mad,  but  mated  ; 27  how,  I  do  not  know. 
Luc.  It  is  a  fault  that  springeth  from  your  eye. 

Ant.  S.  For  gazing  on  your  beams,  fair  sun,  being  by. 
Luc.  Gaze  where  you  should,  and  that  will  clear  your  sight. 

25  It  appears  that  decline  was  sometimes  used  in  the  sense  of  incline. 
So  Baret :  “  To  decline ;  to  turne,  or  hang  toward  some  place  or  thing.” 

26  Love  here  means  the  Queen  of  love,  Venus,  not  her  tow-head  son. 
So  in  the  Poet’s  Venus  and  Adonis  : 

Love  is  a  spirit,  all  compact  of  fire, 

Not  gross  to  sink  but  light ,  and  will  aspire. 

27  A  quibble,  mated  being  used  in  the  two  senses  of  matched  and  con* 
founded  or  bewildered.  Shakespeare  has  it  repeatedly  in  the  latter  sense. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


1 1  I 


Ant.  S.  As  good  to  wink,  sweet  love,  as  look  on  night. 

Luc .  Why  call  you  me  love  ?  call  my  sister  so. 

Ant.  S.  Thy  sister’s  sister. 

Luc.  That’s  my  sister. 

Ant.  S.  No; 

It  is  thyself,  mine  own  self’s  better  part, 

Mine  eye’s  clear  eye,  my  dear  heart’s  dearer  heart. 

My  food,  my  fortune,  and  my  sweet  hope’s  aim, 

My  sole  earth’s  Heaven,  and  my  Heaven’s  claim.28 

Luc.  All  this  my  sister  is,  or  else  should  be. 

Ant.  S.  Call  thyself  sister,  sweet,  for  I  aim  thee.29 
Thee  will  I  love,  and  with  thee  lead  my  life  : 

Thou  hast  no  husband  yet,  nor  I  no  wife. 

Give  me  thy  hand. 

Luc.  O,  soft,  sir  !  hold  you  still : 

I’ll  fetch  my  sister,  to  get  her  good  will.  [Exit. 

Enter,  from  the  House,  Dromio  of  Syracuse  running. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  how  now,  Dromio  !  where  runn’st  thou  so 
fast? 

Dro.  S.  Do  you  know  me,  sir  ?  am  I  Dromio  ?  am  I  your 
man  ?  am  I  myself  ? 

Ant.  S.  Thou  art  Dromio,  thou  art  my  man,  thou  art 
thyself. 

Dro.  S.  I  am  an  ass,  I  am  a  woman’s  man,  and  besides 
myself.30 

28  Meaning,  probably,  “  all  the  happiness  I  wish  for  on  Earth,  and  all 
that  I  claim  from  Heaven  hereafter.” 

29  Aim.  thee  sounds  harsh,  but  evidently  means  aim  at  thee  ;  that  is,  seek 
thee.  So  in  Paradise  Regained ,  iv.  208  :  “  Me  nought  advantaged,  missing 
what  I  aim'd." 

30  The  two  forms  beside  and  besides  had  not  become  differentiated  into 
preposition  and  adverb  in  Shakespeare’s  time.  Here  it  is  necessary  to  re¬ 
tain  the  adverbial  form  in  the  prepositional  sense,  on  account  of  the  quibble 
in  the  second  speech  below. 


I  12 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  hi. 


Ant.  S .  What  woman’s  man  ?  and  how  besides  thyself  ? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  besides  myself,  I  am  due  to  a  woman  ; 
one  that  claims  me,  one  that  haunts  me,  one  that  will  have  me. 

Ant.  S.  What  claim  lays  she  to  thee  ? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  such  claim  as  you  would  lay  to  your 
horse ;  and  she  would  have  me  as  a  beast :  not  that,  T  being 
a  beast,  she  would  have  me ;  but  that  she,  being  a  very 
beastly  creature,  lays  claim  to  me. 

Ant .  S.  What  is  she? 

Dro.  S.  A  very  reverend  body ;  ay,  such  a  one  as  a  man 
may  not  speak  of,  without  he  say  sir-rcverenceD  I  have  but 
lean  luck  in  the  match,  and  yet  is  she  a  wondrous  fat  marriage. 

Ant.  S.  How  dost  thou  mean,  —  a  fat  marriage  ? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  she’s  the  kitchen -wench,  and  all 
grease  ;  and  I  know  not  what  use  to  put  her  to,  but  to  make 
a  lamp  of  her,  and  run  from  her  by  her  own  light.  I  war¬ 
rant,  her  rags,  and  the  tallow  in  them,  will  burn  a  Poland 
Winter  :  if  she  lives  till  doomsday,  she’ll  burn  a  week  longer 
than  the  whole  world. 

Ant.  S.  What  complexion  is  she  of? 

Dro.  S.  Swart,3'3  like  my  shoe,  but  her  face  nothing  like  so 
clean  kept :  for  why  33  she  sweats  ;  a  man  may  go  over  shoes 
in  the  grime  of  it. 

31  Sir-reverence  is  an  old  corruption  of  salva  reverentia  or  save  rever¬ 
ence,  a  shortened  form  of  “saving  your  reverence,”  which  was  much  used 
as  an  apologetic  phrase  for  introducing  any  coarse  or  profane  expression  or 
allusion. 

32  Swart  or  swarth  is  dark,  dusky,  or  swarthy. 

33  For  why  is  here  a  simple  equivalent  of  because,  or  for  the  reason  that. 
The  usage  was  ancient  and  common,  and  was  fast  passing  away  in  the 
Poet’s  time;  but  he  has  several  instances  of  it.  So  in  The  Two  Gentlemen, 
iii.  i :  "If  she  do  chide,  ’tis  not  to  have  you  gone ;  for  why  the  fools  are 
mad,  if  left  alone.”  And  in  the  fine  old  ballad,  My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom 
Is:  “To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall,  for  why  my  mind  despiseth  all.” 
Also  in  A  Warning  for  Faire  Women,  1599  :  “  What  time  a  day  is’t  now  ? 
it  cannot  be  imagin’d  by  the  sunne,  for  why  I  have  not  seene  it  shine  to 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


I  13 


Ant.  S.  That’s  a  fault  that  water  will  mend. 

Dro.  S.  No,  sir,  ’tis  in  grain ;  Noah’s  flood  could  not 
do  it. 

Ant.  S.  What’s  her  name? 

Dro.  S.  Nell,  sir'll  but  her  name  and  three  quarters,  that’s 
an  ell  and  three  quarters,  will  not  measure  her  from  hip  to 
hip. 

Ant.  S.  Then  she  bears  some  breadth? 

Dro.  S.  No  longer  from  head  to  foot  than  from  hip  to 
hip :  she  is  spherical,  like  a  globe ;  I  could  find  out  coun¬ 
tries  in  her. 

Ant.  S.  In  what  part  of  her  body  stands  Ireland? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  in  her  buttocks :  I  found  it  out  by 
the  bogs. 

Ant.  S.  Where  Scotland? 

Dro.  S.  I  found  it  by  the  barrenness ;  hard  in  the  palm 
of  her  hand. 

Ant.  S.  Where  France? 

Dro.  S.  In  her  forehead ;  arm’d  and  reverted,  making 
war  against  her  hair.34 

Ant.  S.  Where  England? 

Dro.  S.  I  look’d  for  the  chalky  cliffs,  but  I  could  find  no 
whiteness  in  them ;  but  I  guess  it  stood  in  her  chin,  by  the 
salt  rheum  that  ran  between  France  and  it. 

Ant.  S.  Where  Spain? 

Dro.  S.  Faith,  I  saw  it  not ;  but  I  felt  it  hot  in  her  breath. 

Ant.  S.  Where  America,  the  Indies? 

Dro.  S.  O,  sir,  upon  her  nose,  all  o’er  embellish’d  with 

34  A  quibble,  of  course,  between  hair  and  heir ;  alluding  to  the  War  of 
the  League  against  Henry  of  Navarre,  who  became  heir  to  the  crown  of 
France  in  1589.  —  The  sense  and  application  of  reverted  are  here  very  ob¬ 
scure,  to  say  the  least.  The  word  itself  means  turned  or  thrown  back.  The 
arming  is,  I  take  it,  with  the  French  disease,  which  made  war  against  the 
hair  in  causing  baldness.  The  jest  about  the  disease  in  question  is  re¬ 
peated,  ad  nauseam ,  in  old  plays.  See  Critical  Notes. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  III. 


1 14 


rubies,  carbuncles,  sapphires,  declining  their  rich  aspect  to 
the  hot  breath  of  Spain ;  who  sent  whole  armadoes  of  caracks 
to  be  ballast 35  at  her  nose. 

Ant.  S.  Where  stood  Belgia,  the  Netherlands? 

Dro.  S.  O,  sir,  I  did  not  look  so  low.  To  conclude,  this 
drudge,  or  diviner,  laid  claim  to  me ;  call’d  me  Dromio ; 
swore  I  was  assured  to  her ;  told  me  what  privy  marks  I  had 
about  me,  as,  the  mark  of  my  shoulder,  the  mole  in  my  neck, 
the  great  wart  on  my  left  arm,  that  I,  amazed,  ran  from  her 
as  a  witch : 

And,  I  think,  if  my  breast  had  not  been  made  of  flint,  and 
my  heart  of  steel, 

She  had  transform’d  me  to  a  curtal  dog,  and  made  me  turn 
i’  the  wheel.36 

Ant.  S.  Go  hie  thee  presently  post  to  the  road  : 

An  if  the  wind  blow  any  way  from  shore, 

I  will  not  harbour  in  this  town  to-night : 

If  any  bark  put  forth,  come  to  the  mart, 

Where  I  will  walk  till  thou  return  to  me. 

If  every  one  knows  us,  and  we  know  none, 

’Tis  time,  I  think,  to  trudge,  pack,  and  be  gone. 

Dro.  S.  As  from  a  bear  a  man  would  run  for  life, 

So  fly  I  from  her  that  would  be  my  wife.  [Exit. 

Ant.  S.  There’s  none  but  witches  do  inhabit  here  ; 

And  therefore  ’tis  high  time  that  I  were  hence. 

She  that  doth  call  me  husband,  even  my  soul 
Doth  for  a  wife  abhor.  But  her  fair  sister, 

Possess’d  with  such  a  gentle  sovereign  grace, 

Of  such  enchanting  presence  and  discourse, 

Hath  almost  made  me  traitor  to  myself : 


35  Ballast  for  ballasted,  or  furnished  with  ballast. — A  curack  was  a  large 
ship  of  burden;  from  the  Spanish  caraca. 

36  Dogs  were  sometimes  used  for  working  the  wheels  of  turnspits,  when 
meats  were  roasted  before  the  fire.  See  page  87,  note  9. 


SCENE  i.  THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  1 1  5 

But,  lest  myself  be  guilty  to  37  self- wrong, 

I’ll  stop  mine  ears  against  the  mermaid’s  song. 

Re-ente r  Angelo  with  the  Chain. 

Ang.  Master  Antipholus,  — 

Ant.  S.  Ay,  that’s  my  name. 

Ang.  I  know  it  well,  sir  :  lo,  here  is  the  chain. 

I  thought  to  have  ta’en  you  at  the  Porpentine  : 

The  chain  unfinish’d  made  me  stay  thus  long. 

Ant.  S.  What  is  your  will  that  I  shall  do  with  this  ? 

Ang.  What  please  yourself,  sir :  I  have  made  it  for  you. 
Ant.  S.  Made  it  for  me,  sir  !  I  bespoke  it  not. 

Ang.  Not  once,  nor  twice,  but  twenty  times  you  have. 

Go  home  with  it,  and  please  your  wife  withal ; 

And  soon  at  supper-time  I’ll  visit  you, 

And  then  receive  my  money  for  the  chain. 

Ant.  S.  I  pray  you,  sir,  receive  the  money  now, 

For  fear  you  ne’er  see  chain  nor  money  more. 

Ang.  You  are  a  merry  man,  sir  :  fare  you  well.  [ Exit. 

Ant.  S.  What  I  should  think  of  this,  I  cannot  tell : 

But  this  I  think,  there’s  no  man  is  so  vain 
That  would  refuse  so  fair  an  offer’d  chain.38 
I  see  a  man  here  needs  not  live  by  shifts, 

When  in  the  streets  he  meets  such  golden  gifts. 

I’ll  to  the  mart,  and  there  for  Dromio  stay : 

If  any  ship  put  out,  then  straight  away.  [ Exit. 

37  Guilty  to  a  thing  sounds  odd ;  but  the  Poet  has  it  again  in  The  Win¬ 
ter's  Tale ,  iv.  3 :  “  Th’  unthought-on  accident  is  guilty  to  what  we  wildly 
do.” 

38  That  is,  “  so  fair-offer’d  a  chain,”  or  so  fairly  offer’d.  So  in  Loves 
Labours  Lost ,  i.  1 :  “  Having  sworn  too  hard-a-keeping  oath.” 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  IV. 


1 1 6 


ACT  IV. 

Sqene  I.  —  A  public  Place. 

Enter  Second  Merchant,  Angelo,  and  an  Officer. 

2  Mer.  You  know  since  Pentecost  the  sum  is  due, 

And  since  I  have  not  much  impdrtuned  you  ; 

Nor  now  I  had  not,  but  that  I  am  bound 
To  Persia,  and  want  guilders  for  my  voyage  : 

Therefore  make  present  satisfaction, 

Or  I’ll  attach  you  by  this  officer. 

Ang.  Even  just  the  sum  that  I  do  owe  to  you 
Is  growing 1  to  me  by  Antipholus  ; 

And  in  the  instant  that  I  met  with  you 
He  had  of  me  a  chain  :  at  five  o’clock 
I  shall  receive  the  money  for  the  same. 

Pleaseth  you  walk  with  me  down  to  his  house, 

I  will  discharge  my  bond,  and  thank  you  too. 

Off.  That  labour  may  you  save  :  see  where  he  comes. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephesus  and  Dromio  of  Ephesus. 

Ant.  E.  While  I  go  to  the  goldsmith’s  house,  go  thou 
And  buy  a  rope’s-end  :  that  will  I  bestow 
Among  my  wife  and  her  confederates 
For  locking  me  out  of  my  doors  by  day. 

But,  soft !  I  see  the  goldsmith.  Get  thee  gone  ; 

Buy  thou  a  rope,  and  bring  it  home  to  me. 

Dro.  E.  I  buy  a  thousand  pound  a-year  !  I  buy  a  rope  ! 

\_Exit. 

Ant.  E.  A  man  is  well  holp2  up  that  trusts  to  you  : 

1  Grow  was  sometimes  used  in  the  sense  of  accrue. 

2  Holp  or  holpen  is  the  old  preterite  of  help.  —  Of  the  preceding  line,  “  I 
buy  a  thousand  pound  a-year !  I  buy  a  rope  !  ”  no  satisfactory  explanation 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


II 7 


You  promised  your  presence  and  the  chain ; 

But  neither  chain  nor  goldsmith  came  to  me. 

Belike  you  thought  our  love  would  last  too  long, 

If  it  were  chain’d  together,  and  therefore  came  not. 

An g.  Saving  your  merry  humour,  here’s  the  note 
How  much  your  chain  weighs  to  the  utmost  carat, 

The  fineness  of  the  gold,  and  chargeful  fashion, 

Which  doth  amount  to  three  odd  ducats  more 
Than  I  stand  debted  to  this  gentleman  : 

I  pray  you,  see  him  presently  discharged, 

For  he  is  bound  to  sea,  and  stays  but  for  it. 

Ant.  E.  I  am  not  furnish’d  with  the  present  money; 
Besides,  I  have  some  business  in  the  town. 

Good  signior,  take  the  stranger  to  my  house, 

And  with  you  take  the  chain,  and  bid  my  wife 
Disburse  the  sum  on  the  receipt  thereof : 

Perchance  I  will  be  there  as  soon  as  you. 

Atig.  Then  you  will  bring  the  chain  to  her  yourself? 

Ant.  E.  No ; 

Bear’t  with  you,  lest  I  come  not  time  enough. 

Ang.  Well,  sir,  I  will.  Have  you  the  chain  about  you? 
Ant.  E.  An  if  I  have  not,  sir,  I  hope  you  have ; 

Or  else  you  may  return  without  your  money. 

Ang.  Nay,  come,  I  pray  you,  sir,  give  me  the  chain : 

Both  wind  and  tide  stay  for  this  gentleman, 

And  I,  to  blame,  have  held  him  here  too  long. 

Ant.  E.  Good  Lord,  you  use  this  dalliance  to  excuse 
Your  breach  of  promise  to  the  Porpentine. 

has  been  given.  Staunton  notes,  “  there  may  have  been  an  allusion  well 
understood  at  the  time;  but  which,  referring  merely  to  some  transitory 
event,  or  some  popular  bye-word  of  the  moment,  has  passed  into  oblivion.” 
There  is  no  apparent  connection  between  “  buying  a  thousand  pound 
a-year”  and  “buying  a  rope.”  I  can  make  nothing  of  it,  unless,  as  the 
rope  is  to  be  used  in  beating,  a  poor  quibble  is  intended  in  pound;  one  of 
its  senses  being  poundings. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  IV. 


118 


I  should  have  chid  you  for  not  bringing  it, 

But,  like  a  shrew,3  you  first  begin  to  brawl. 

2  Mer .  The  hour  steals  on ;  I  pray  you,  sir,  dispatch. 
Ang .  You  hear  how  he  impbrtunes  me  ;  —  the  chain  ! 
Ant.  E.  Why,  give  it  to  my  wife,  and  fetch  your  money. 
Ang.  Come,  come,  you  know  I  gave  it  you  even  now. 
Either  send  the  chain,  or  send  by  me  some  token. 

Ant.  E .  Fie,  now  you  run  this  humour  out  of  breath. 
Come,  where’s  the  chain  ?  I  pray  you,  let  me  see  it. 

2  Mer.  My  business  cannot  brook  this  dalliance. 

Good  sir,  say  wher  you’ll  answer  me  or  no  : 

If  not,  I’ll  leave  him  to  the  officer. 

Ant.  E.  I  answer  you  !  what  should  I  answer  you  ? 

Ang.  The  money  that  you  owe  me  for  the  chain. 

Ant.  E.  I  owe  you  none  till  I  receive  the  chain. 

Ang.  You  know  I  gave’t  you  half  an  hour  since. 

Ant.  E.  You  gave  me  none  :  you  wrong  me  much  to  say 
so. 

Ang.  You  wrong  me  more,  sir,  in  denying  it : 

Consider  how  it  stands  upon  my  credit.4 
2  Mer.  Well,  officer,  arrest  him  at  my  suit. 

Off.  I  do  ;  — 

And  charge  you  in  the  Duke’s  name  to  obey  me. 

Ang.  This  touches  me  in  reputation.  — 

Either  consent  to  pay  this  sum  for  me, 

Or  I  attach  you  by  this  officer. 

Ant.  E.  Consent  to  pay  thee  that  I  never  had  ! 

Arrest  me,  foolish  fellow,  if  thou  darest. 

Ang.  Here  is  thy  fee  ;  arrest  him,  officer.  — 

I  would  not  spare  my  brother  in  this  case, 


3  In  old  language,  a  shrew  is  a  scold ;  from  shrewd ,  sharp-tongued. 

4  That  is,  concerns,  or  is  important  to,  my  credit.  The  phrase  was  very 
common.  So  Shelton’s  translation  of  Don  Quixote,  1620:  “Tel  me  your 
name ;  for  it  stands  me  very  much  upon  to  know  it.’’ 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


I  19 


If  he  should  scorn  me  so  apparently.5 

Off.  I  do  arrest  you,  sir  :  you  hear  the  suit. 

Ant.  E.  I  do  obey  thee  till  I  give  thee  bail.  — 

But,  sirrah,  you  shall  buy  this  sport  as  dear 
As  all  the  metal  in  your  shop  will  answer. 

Ang.  Sir,  sir,  I  shall  have  law  in  Ephesus, 

To  your  notorious  shame,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  there  is  a  bark  of  Epidamnum 
That  stays  but  till  her  owner  comes  aboard, 

And  then  she  bears  away.  Our  fraughtage,  sir, 

I  have  convey’d  aboard ;  and  I  have  bought 
The  oil,  the  balsamum,  and  aqua-vitae. 

The  ship  is  in  her  trim  ;  the  merry  wind 
Blows  fair  from  land  :  they  stay  for  nought  at  all 
But  for  their  owner,  master,  and  yourself. 

Ant.  E.  How  now  !  a  madman  !  Why,  thou  peevish 6 
sheep, 

What  ship  of  Epidamnum  stays  for  me  ? 

Dro.  S.  A  ship  you  sent  me  to,  to  hire  waftage.7 
Ant.  E.  Thou  drunken  slave,  I  sent  thee  for  a  rope, 

And  told  thee  to  what  purpose  and  what  end. 

Dro.  S.  You  sent  me,  sir,  for  a  rope’s-end  as  soon  : 

You  sent  me  to  the  bay,  sir,  for  a  bark. 

Ant.  E.  I  will  debate  this  matter  at  more  leisure, 

And  teach  your  ears  to  list  me  with  more  heed. 


5  Apparently ,  here,  is  evidently.  The  Poet  has  apparent  repeatedly  in  that 
sense. 

6  Peevish  is  foolish  or  mad.  Commonly  so  in  Shakespeare.  —  A  quibble 
is  intended  here  between  sheep  and  ship ,  which  appear  to  have  been  sounded 
alike. 

7  Waftage  is  passage  by  water  or  on  the  waves.  —  Hire  is  here  a  dissylla¬ 
ble  ;  spelt  hier  in  the  original.  So  hour,  a  little  before  in  this  scene :  “  I 
gave’t  you  half  an  hour  since.” 


120 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  IV. 


To  Adriana,  villain,  hie  thee  straight : 

Give  her  this  key,  and  tell  her,  in  the  desk 
That’s  cover’d  o’er  with  Turkish  tapestry 
There  is  a  purse  of  ducats  ;  let  her  send  it : 

Tell  her  I  am  arrested  in  the  street, 

And  that  shall  bail  me  :  hie  thee,  slave,  be  gone.  — 

On,  officer,  to  prison  till  it  come. 

\_Exeunt  Sec.  Merchant,  Angelo,  Officer,  and  Ant.  E. 
Dro.  S.  Tq^Adriana  !  that  is  where  we  dined, 

Where  Dowsabei)did  claim  me  for  her  husband  : 

She  is  too  big,  I  hope,  for  me  to  compass. 

Thither  I  must,  although  against  my  will, 

For  servants  must  their  masters’  minds  fulfil.  \Exit. 

Scene  II. — A  Room  in  the  House  ^/Antipholus  of  Ephesus. 

Enter  Adriana  and  Luciana. 

Adr.  Ah,  Luciana,  did  he  tempt  thee  so  ? 

Mightst  thou  perceive  assuredly  in  his  eye 
That  he  did  plead  in  earnest,  yea  or  no  ? 

Look’d  he  or  red  or  pale,  or  sad  or  merry  ? 

What  observation  madest  thou,  in  this  case, 

Of  his  heart’s  meteors  tilting  in  his  face  ?  1 

Luc.  First  he  denied  you  had  in  him  no  right.2 
Adr.  He  meant  he  did  me  none ;  the  more  my  spite. 

1  Meteors  here  probably  refers  to  the  Aurora  Borealis,  which  sometimes 
has  the  appearance  of  armies  meeting  in  battle.  So  in  Paradise  Lost,  ii.  533  : 

As  when,  to  warn  proud  cities,  war  appears 
Waged  in  the  troubled  sky,  and  armies  rush 
To  battle  in  the  clouds,  before  each  van 
Prick  forth  the  aery  knights,  and  couch  their  spears, 

Till  thickest  legions  close. 

2  This  double  negative  had  the  force  of  a  strong  affirmative.  So  in  King 
Richard  the  Third ,  i.  3  :  “  You  may  deny  that  you  were  not  the  cause  of  my 
Lord  Hastings’  late  imprisonment.” 


SCENE  II. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


I  2  I 


Luc.  Then  swore  he  that  he  was  a  stranger  here. 

A  dr.  And  true  he  swore,  though  yet  forsworn  he  were. 
Luc.  Then  pleaded  I  for  you. 

Adr.  And  what  said  he  ? 

Luc.  That  love  I  begg’d  for  you  he  begg’d  of  me. 

Adr.  With  what  persuasion  did  he  tempt  thy  love  ? 

Luc.  With  words  that  in  an  honest  suit  might  move. 

First  he  did  praise  my  beauty,  then  my  speech. 

Adr.  Didst  speak  him  fair? 

Luc.  Have  patience,  I  beseech. 

Adr.  I  cannot,  nor  I  will  not,  hold  me  still ; 

My  tongue,  though  not  my  heart,  shall  have  his  will. 

He  is  deformed,  crooked,  old,  and  sere,3 
Ill-faced,  worse-bodied,  shapeless  everywhere ; 

Vicious,  ungentle,  foolish,  blunt,  unkind ; 

Stigmatical  in  making,4  worse  in  mind. 

Luc.  Who  would  be  jealous,  then,  of  such  a  one  ? 

No  evil  lost  is  wail’d  when  it  is  gone. 

Adr.  Ah,  but  I  think  him  better  than  I  say, 

And  yet  would  herein  others’  eyes  were  worse. 

Far  from  her  nest  the  lapwing  cries  away  :  5 
My  heart  prays  for  him,  though  my  tongue  do  curse. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Dro.  S.  Here,  go ;  the  desk,  the  purse  !  sweet,  now,  make 
haste. 

Luc.  How  hast  thou  lost  thy  breath  ? 

3  Sere  is  dry,  withered ,  in  decay.  So  in  Macbeth,  v.  3  :  "  My  way  of  life  is 
fall’n  into  the  sere,  the  yellow  leaf.” 

4  That  is,  marked  by  Nature  with  ugliness,  or  having  a  stigma,  or  note 
of  disgrace,  set  upon  it. 

5  This  was  a  common  proverbial  saying.  So  in  Lyly’s  Alexander  and 
Campaspe  :  “  You  resemble  the  lapwing,  who  cryeth  most  where  her  nest  is 
not;  and  so,  to  lead  me  from  espying  your  love  for  Campaspe,  you  cry 
Timoclea.” 


122 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  IV. 


Dro.  S.  By  running  fast. 

A  dr.  Where  is  thy  master,  Dromio?  is  he  well? 

Dro.  S.  No,  he’s  in  Tartar  limbo,  worse  than  Hell. 

A  devil  in  an  everlasting  garment 6  hath  him ; 

One  whose  hard  heart  is  button’d  up  with  steel ; 

A  fiend,  a  fury,  pitiless  and  rough ; 

A  wolf,  nay,  worse,  —  a  fellow  all  in  buff ; 

A  back-friend,  a  shoulder- clapper,  one  that  countermands 
The  passages  of  alleys,  creeks,  and  narrow  lands  ; 

A  hound  that  runs  counter,  and  yet  draws  dry-foot  well ; 7 
One  that,  before  the  judgment,  carries  poor  souls  to  Hell.8 
A  dr.  Why,  man,  what  is  the  matter  ? 

Dro.  S.  I  do  not  know  the  matter :  he  is  ’rested  on  the 
case. 

Adr.  What,  is  he  arrested  ?  tell  me  at  whose  suit. 

Dro.  I  know  not  at  whose  suit  he  is  arrested  well ; 

But  he’s  in  a  suit  of  buff  which  ’rested  him,  that  I  can  tell. 
Will  you  send  him,  mistress,  redemption,  the  money  in  his 
desk? 


6  The  serjeant’s  buff  or  leather  jerkin  is  called  an  “  everlasting  garment,” 
probably  because  of  its  durability.  So  in  i  Henry  IV.,  i.  2  :  “  Is  not  a  buff 
jerkin  a  most  sweet  robe  of  durance  ?  ” 

7  To  run  counter  and  to  draw  dry  foot  were  terms  of  the  chase.  The 
latter  was  used  of  a  hound  that  traced  the  game  by  the  mere  scent  of  the 
foot ;  as  an  animal  running  over  dry  ground  would  naturally  leave  no  visi¬ 
ble  footprints.  To  run  or  hunt  counter  was  to  course  the  trail  backward, 
mistaking  the  direction  of  the  game.  A  hound  that  ran  counter  was  not 
likely  to  draw  dry  foot  well ;  but  the  two  things  thus  hardly  compatible  in 
themselves  are  here  tied  together  by  a  quibble  upon  counter,  which  was  the 
name  of  one  of  the  London  prisons.  A  sheriff’s  officer  might  be  said  to 
run  counter,  inasmuch  as  he  took  rogues  to  the  Counter;  and  he  might  also 
be  said  to  draw  dry  foot  well,  because  the  rogues  whom  he  hunted  were  apt 
to  have  their  purses  empty,  or  dry  of  cash. 

8  Quibbles,  again,  both  on  judgment  and  on  Hell ;  the  former  referring 
both  to  the  Judgment-day,  and  to  the  sentence,  before  which  the  accused 
was  held  in  prison  for  trial.  Hell  was  a  cant  term  for  the  worst  dungeon  in 
the  prisons  of  the  time. 


SCENE  II. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


123 


Adr.  Go  fetch  it,  sister.  —  [Exit  Luciana. 

This  I  wonder  at, 

That  he,  unknown  to  me,  should  be  in  debt.  — 

Tell  me,  was  he  arrested  on  a  band  ?  9 

Dro.  S.  Not  on  a  band,  but  on  a  stronger  thing,  — 

A  chain,  a  chain  :  do  you  not  hear  it  ring  ? 

Adr.  What,  the  chain? 

Dro.  S.  No,  no,  the  bell :  ’tis  time  that  I  were  gone  : 

It  was  two  ere  I  left  him,  and  now  the  clock  strikes  one. 

Adr.  The  hours  come  back  !  that  did  I  never  hear. 

Dro.  S.  O,  yes;  if  any  hour10  meet  a  sergeant,  ’a  turns 
back  for  very  fear. 

Adr.  As  if  Time  were  in  debt !  how  fondly  dost  thou 
reason  ! 11 

Dro.  S.  Time  is  a  very  bankrupt,  and  owes  more  than 
he’s  worth  to  season. 

Nay,  he’s  a  thief  too  :  have  you  not  heard  men  say, 

That  Time  comes  stealing  on  by  night  and  day  ? 

If  Time  be  in  debt  and  theft,  and  a  sergeant  in  the  way, 
Hath  he  not  reason  to  turn  back  an  hour  in  a  day  ? 

Re-enter  Luciana  with  the  purse. 

Adr.  Go,  Dromio  ;  there’s  the  money,  bear  it  straight ; 
And  bring  thy  master  home  immediately.  — 

Come,  sister  :  I  am  press’d  down  with  conceit,19  — 

Conceit,  my  comfort  and  my  injury.  [ Exeunt . 


9  Band  is  an  old  spelling  of  bond ,  and  has  to  be  retained  here  on  account 
of  the  quibble. 

10  From  this,  it  seems  probable  that,  as  Mr.  White  observes,  hour  and 
whore  were  pronounced  alike,  or  nearly  so,  —  hoor. 

11  To  talk  or  converse  is  among  the  old  senses  of  to  reason. 

12  Conceit  was  always  used  in  a  good  sense,  that  of  conception,  imagina¬ 
tion,  or  thought. 


124 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  IV. 


Scene  III.  —  A  public  Place . 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Syracuse. 

Ant.  S.  There’s  not  a  man  I  meet  but  doth  salute  me 
As  if  I  were  their  well-acquainted  friend  ; 

And  every  one  doth  call  me  by  my  name. 

Some  tender  money  to  me  ;  some  invite  me  ; 

Some  other  give  me  thanks  for  kindnesses ; 

Some  offer  me  commodities  to  buy : 

Even  now  a  tailor  call’d  me  in  1  his  shop, 

And  show’d  me  silks  that  he  had  bought  for  me, 

And  therewithal  took  measure  of  my  body. 

Sure,  these  are  but  imaginary  wiles, 

And  Lapland  sorcerers  inhabit  here. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse.  - 

Dro.  S.  Master,  here’s  the  gold  you  sent  me  for.  What, 
have  you  got  the  picture  of  old  Adam  new-apparell’d  ?  2 

Ant.  S.  What  gold  is  this?  what  Adam  dost  thou  mean? 

Dro.  S.  Not  that  Adam  that  kept  the  Paradise,  but  that 
Adam  that  keeps  the  prison  :  he  that  goes  in  the  calf’s  skin 
that  was  kill’d  for  the  Prodigal ;  he  that  came  behind  you, 
sir,  like  an  evil  angel,  and  bid  you  forsake  your  liberty. 

Ant.  S.  I  understand  thee  not. 

Dro.  S.  No?  why,  ’tis  a  plain  case  :  he  that  went,  like  a 
base-viol,  in  a  case  of  leather ;  the  man,  sir,  that,  when  gen¬ 
tlemen  are  tired,  gives  them  a  bob,3  and  ’rests  them ;  he,  sir, 

1  In  and  into  were  used  interchangeably,  at  least  to  some  extent. 

2  Singer’s  explanation  of  this  queer  passage  is  probably  right :  “  The  ser¬ 
geant  is  designated  by  the  picture  of  old  Adam,  because  he  wore  buff,  as 
Adam  wore  his  native  buff ;  and  Dromio  asks  Antipholus  if  he  had  got  him 
new-apparell' d,  that  is,  got  him  a  new  suit ;  in  other  words,  got  rid  of  him.” 

3  Bob  here  means  a  stroke  or  clap.  Dromio  has  already  spoken  of  the 
sergeant  as  “  a  shoulder-clapper.”  The  Poet  elsewhere  uses  bob  figuratively 
for  taunt  or  scoff. 


SCENE  III. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


125 


that  takes  pity  on  decayed  men,  and  gives  them  suits  of  dur¬ 
ance  ;  he  that  sets  up  his  rest 4  to  do  more  exploits  with  his 
mace  than  a  morris-pike.5 

Ant.  S.  What,  thou  mean’st  an  officer? 

Dro.  S.  Ay,  sir,  the  sergeant  of  the  band ;  he  that  brings 
any  man  to  answer  it  that  breaks  his  band ;  one  that  thinks 
a  man  always  going  to  bed,  and  says,  God  give  you  good 
rest! 

Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  there  rest  in  your  foolery.  Is  there  any 
ship  puts  forth  to-night  ?  may  we  be  gone  ? 

Dro.  S.  Why,  sir,  I  brought  you  word  an  hour  since,  that 
the  bark  Expedition  put  forth  to-night ;  and  then  were  you 
hinder’d  by  the  sergeant,  to  tarry  for  the  hoy  Delay.  Here 
are  the  angels  6  that  you  sent  for  to  deliver  you. 

Ant.  S.  The  fellow  is  distract,7  and  so  am  I ; 

And  here  we  wander  in  illusions : 

Some  blessed  power  deliver  us  from  hence  ! 

Enter  a  Courtezan. 

Cour.  Well  met,  well  met,  Master  Antipholus. 

I  see,  sir,  you  have  found  the  goldsmith  now : 

Is  that  the  chain  you  promised  me  to-day? 

Ant.  S.  Satan,  avoid  !  I  charge  thee,  tempt  me  not. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  is  this  Mistress  Satan  ? 


4  Setting  up  one's  rest  is  an  old  phrase  for  resolving  or  making  up  one's 
mind  to  do  a  thing.  So  in  The  Merchant ,  ii.  2,  Launcelot  quibbles  upon 
it:  “As  I  have  set  up  my  rest,  to  run  away,  so  I  will  not  rest  till  I  have  run 
some  ground.”  Also  in  Romeo  and  Juliet ,  iv.  5  :  “  The  County  Paris  hath 
set  up  his  rest ,  that  you  shall  rest  but  little.” 

5  Morris-pike  is  a  corruption  of  Moorish  pike ,  the  name  of  a  weapon 
much  used  in  the  sixteenth  century. 

6  Angel  was  the  name  of  an  English  gold  coin,  worth  about  ten  shillings. 
The  Poet  has  many  allusions  to  it.  So  in  The  Merchant ,  ii.  6  :  “  They  have 
in  England  a  coin  that  bears  the  figure  of  an  angel  stamped  in  gold.” 

7  Distract  for  distracted ,  just  as,  before,  ballast  for  ballasted.  Shake¬ 
speare  has  many  such  shortened  preterites. 


126 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  IV. 


Ant.  S.  It  is  the  Devil. 

Dro .  S.  Nay,  she  is  worse,  she  is  the  Devil’s  dam;  and 
here  she  comes  in  the  habit  of  a  light  wench :  and  thereof 
comes  that  the  wenches  say,  God  damn  me  ;  that’s  as  much 
as  to  say,  God  make  me  a  light  wench.  It  is  written,  they 
appear  to  men  like  angels  of  light :  light  is  an  effect  of  fire, 
and  fire  will  burn;  ergo ,  light  wenches  will  burn.  Come 
not  near  her. 

Cour.  Your  man  and  you  are  marvellous  merry,  sir. 

Will  you  go  with  me  ?  We’ll  mend  our  dinner  here. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  if  you  do,  expect  spoon-meat ;  so  be¬ 
speak  a  long  spoon. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  Dromio? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  he  must  have  a  long  spoon  that  must  eat 
with  the  Devil.8 

Ant.  S.  Avoid  thee,  fiend  !  what  tell’st  thou  me  of  sup¬ 
ping? 

Thou  art,  as  you  are  all,  a  sorceress  : 

I  cdnjure  thee  to  leave  me  and  be  gone. 

Cour.  Give  me  the  ring  of  mine  you  had  at  dinner, 

Or,  for  my  diamond,  the  chain  you  promised ; 

And  I’ll  be  gone,  sir,  and  not  trouble  you. 

Dro.  S.  Some  devils  ask  but  the  pairings  of  one’s  nail, 

A  rush,  a  hair,  a  drop  of  blood,  a  pin, 

A  nut,  a  cherry-stone  ; 

But  she,  more  covetous,  would  have  a  chain. 

Master,  be  wise  :  an  if  you  give  it  her, 

The  Devil  will  shake  her  chain,  and  fright  us  with  it. 

Cour.  I  pray  you,  sir,  my  ring,  or  else  the  chain  : 

I  hope  you  do  not  mean  to  cheat  me  so. 

Ant.  S.  Avaunt,  thou  witch  !  —  Come,  Dromio,  let  us 

go- 

8  "  He  that  eats  with  the  Devil  has  need  of  a  long  spoon,”  is  an  old 
proverb.  Referred  to  again  in  The  Tempest. 


SCENE  IV. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


127 


Dro.  S.  Fly  pride ,  says  the  peacock  :  mistress,  that  you 
know.  •  \_Exeunt  Ant.  S.  and  Dro.  S. 

Cour.  Now,  out  of  doubt  Antipholus  is  mad. 

Else  would  he  never  so  demean  himself. 

A  ring  he  hath  of  mine  worth  forty  ducats, 

And  for  the  same  he  promised  me  a  chain : 

Both  one  and  other  he  denies  me  now. 

The  reason  that  I  gather  he  is  mad,  — 

Besides  this  present  instance  of  his  rage,  — 

Is  a  mad  tale  he  told  to-day  at  dinner, 

Of  his  own  doors  being  shut  against  his  entrance. 

Belike  his  wife,  acquainted  with  his  fits, 

On  purpose  shut  the  doors  against  his  way. 

My  way  is  now  to  hie  home  to  his  house, 

And  tell  his  wife  that,  being  lunatic, 

He  rush’d  into  my  house,  and  took  perforce 
My  ring  away.  This  course  I  fittest  choose ; 

For  forty  ducats  is  too  much  to  lose.  [Exit. 


Scene  IV.  —  A  Street. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephesus  and  the  Officer. 

Ant.  E.  Fear  me  not,  man  ;  I  will  not  break  away  : 
I’ll  give  thee,  ere  I  leave  thee,  so  much  money, 

To  warrant  thee,  as  I  am  ’rested  for. 

My  wife  is  in  a  wayward  mood  to-day, 

And  will  not  lightly  trust  the  messenger : 

That  I  should  be  attach’d  in  Ephesus, 

I  tell  you,  ’twill  sound  harshly  in  her  ears. 

Here  comes  my  man  ;  I  think  he  brings  the  money.  — 

Enter  Dromio  of  Ephesus  with  a  rope's-end. 

How  now,  sir  !  have  you  that  I  sent  you  for  ? 

Dro.  E.  Here’s  that,  I  warrant  you,  will  pay  them  all. 


128 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  IV. 


Ant.  E.  But  where’s  the  money? 

Dro.  E.  Why,  sir,  I  gave  the  money  for  the  rope. 

Ant.  E.  Five  hundred  ducats,  villain,  for  a  rope  ? 

Off.  I’ll  serve  you,  sir,  five  hundred  at  the  rate. 

Ant.  E.  To  what  end  did  I  bid  thee  hie  thee  home? 

Dro.  E.  To  a  rope’s-end,  sir ;  and  to  that  end  am  I  return’d. 

Ant.  E.  And  to  that  end,  sir,  I  will  welcome  you. 

\_Beatmg  him. 

Off.  Good  sir,  be  patient. 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  ’tis  for  me  to  be  patient ;  I  am  in  adversity. 

Off.  Good  now,1  hold  thy  tongue. 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  rather  persuade  him  to  hold  his  hands. 

Ant.  E.  Thou  whoreson,  senseless  villain  ! 

Dro.  E.  I  would  I  were  senseless,  sir,  that  I  might  not 
feel  your  blows. 

Ant.  E.  Thou  art  sensible  in2  nothing  but  blows,  and  so 
is  an  ass. 

Dro.  E.  I  am  an  ass,  indeed ;  you  may  prove  it  by  my 
long ’ears.3  —  I  have  served  him  from  the  hour  of  my  nativity 
to  this  instant,  and  have  nothing  at  his  hands  for  my  service 
but  blows.  When  I  am  cold,  he  heats  me  with  beating ; 
when  I  am  warm,  he  cools  me  with  beating :  I  am  waked 
with  it  when  I  sleep ;  raised  with  it  when  I  sit ;  driven  out 
of  doors  with  it  when  I  go  from  home ;  welcomed  home 
with  it  when  I  return :  nay,  I  bear  it  on  my  shoulders,  as  a 
beggar  wont  her  brat ;  and,  I  think,  when  he  hath  lamed  me, 
I  shall  beg  with  it  from  door  to  door. 

1  Shakespeare  has  good  now  repeatedly  with  the  exact  meaning  of  well 
now.  So  in  Hamlet ,  i.  i :  “  Good  now,  sit  down,  and  tell  me,  he  that 
knows,”  &c. 

2  Sensitive  to  is  the  meaning.  The  Poet  has  sensible  repeatedly,  where 
we  should  use  sensitive. 

3  A  quibble  between  ears  and  years,  which  were  probably  sounded  much 
alike,  as  they  still  are  in  some  places.  So,  as  the  Cambridge  Editors  note, 
it  appears  from  what  follows. 


SCENE  IV. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


129 

Ant.  E.  Come,  go  along ;  my  wife  is  coming  yonder. 
Enter  Adriana,  Luciana,  the  Courtezan,  and  Pinch. 


Dro.  E.  Mistress,  respice  jinem ,  respect  your  end ;  or 
rather,  to  prophesy  like  the  parrot,4  Beware  the  rope  s-end. 
Ant.  E.  Wilt  thou  still  talk  ?  \_B eating  him 

Cour.  How  say  you  now  ?  is  not  your  husband  mad  ? 

Adr.  His  incivility  confirms  no  less.  — • 

Good  Doctor  Pinch,  you  are  a  conjurer ; 

Establish  him  in  his  true  sense  again, 

And  I  will  please  you  what  you  will  demand. 

Luc.  Alas,  how  fiery  and  how  sharp  he  looks  ! 

Cour.  Mark  how  he  trembles  in  his  ecstasy  ! 5 
Pinch.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  let  me  feel  your  pulse. 
Ant.  E.  There  is  my  hand,  and  let  it  feel  your  ear. 

\_Striking  him . 

Pinch.  I  charge  thee,  Satan,  housed  within  this  man, 

To  yield  possession  to  my  holy  prayers, 

And  to  thy  state  of  darkness  hie  thee  straight ; 

I  cdnjure  thee  by  all  the  saints  in  Heaven  ! 

Ant.  E.  Peace,  doting  wizard,  peace  !  I  am  not  mad. 
Adr.  O,  that  thou  wert  not,  poor  distressed  soul ! 

Ant.  E.  You  minion,  you,  are  these  your  customers?6 


4  Parrots  were  specially  taught  unlucky  words ;  and  if  any  passer-by  took 
offence  at  these,  the  owner  was  wont  to  say,  “  Take  heed,  sir,  my  parrot 
prophesies.”  So  in  Hudibras,  referring  to  Ralpho’s  skill  in  augury : 

Could  tell  what  subtlest  parrots  mean, 

That  speak,  and  think  contrary  clean  ; 

What  member  'tis  of  whom  they  talk, 

When  they  cry  rope,  and  walk,  knave,  walk. 

6  This  tremor  was  thought  to  be  a  sure  sign  of  diabolical  possession.  In 
The  Tempest,  ii.  2,  Caliban  says,  “  Thou  dost  me  yet  but  little  hurt ;  thou 
wilt  anon,  I  know  it  by  thy  trembling .” 

6  A  customer  was  a  familiar ,  one  accustomed  to  haunt  any  place.  So 
defined  in  old  dictionaries. 


1 30  THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  ACT  IV. 

Did  this  companion  7  with  the  saffron  face 
Revel  and  feast  it  at  my  house  to-day, 

Whilst  upon  me  the  guilty  doors  were  shut, 

And  I  denied  to  enter  in  my  house  ? 

Adr.  O  husband,  God  doth  know  you  dined  at  home ; 
Where  would  you  had  remain’d  until  this  time, 

Free  from  these  slanders  and  this  open  shame  ! 

Ant.  E.  I  dined  at  home!  —  Thou  villain,  what  say’st 
thou  ? 

Dro.  E.  Sir,  sooth  to  say,  you  did  not  dine  at  home. 

Ant.  E.  Were  not  my  doors  lock’d  up,  and  I  shut  out? 
Dro.  E.  Perdy,8  your  doors  were  lock’d,  and  you  shut 
out. 

Ant.  E.  And  did  not  she  herself  revile  me  there? 

Dro.  E.  Sans  fable,  she  herself  reviled  you  there. 

Ant.  E.  Did  not  her  kitchen-maid  rail,  taunt,  and  scorn 
me? 

Dro.  E.  Certes,  she  did ;  the  kitchen-vestal  scorn’d  you. 
Ant.  E.  And  did  not  I  in  rage  depart  from  thence? 

Dro.  E.  In  verity  you  did  ;  —  my  bones  bear  witness, 
That  since  have  felt  the  vigour  of  his  rage. 

Adr.  Is’t  good  to  soothe  him  in  these  contraries? 

Phuh.  It  is  no  shame  :  the  fellow  finds  his  vein, 

And,  yielding  to  him,  humours  well  his  frenzy. 

Ant.  E.  Thou  hast  suborn’d  the  goldsmith  to  arrest  me. 
Adr.  Alas,  I  sent  you  money  to  redeem  you, 

By  Dromio  here,  who  came  in  haste  for  it. 

Dro.  E.  Money  by  me  !  heart  and  good-will  you  might ; 
But  surely,  mistress,  not  a  rag  of  money. 

Ant.  E.  Went’st  not  thou  to  her  for  a  purse  of  ducats? 
Adr.  He  came  to  me,  and  I  deliver’d  it. 

Luc.  And  I  am  witness  with  her  that  she  did. 


7  Companion  was  used  as  a  word  of  contempt,  as  fellow  is  now. 

8  Perdy  is  an  ancient  corruption  of  par  Dieu. 


SCENE  IV.  THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.  1 3 1 

Dro.  E.  God  and  the  rope-maker  now  bear  me  witness 
That  I  was  sent  for  nothing  but  a  rope  ! 

Pinch.  Mistress,  both  man  and  master  is  possess’d ; 

I  know  it  by  their  pale  and  deadly  looks  : 

They  must  be  bound,  and  laid  in  some  dark  room. 

Ant.  E.  Say,  wherefore  didst  thou  lock  me  forth  to-day? 
And  why  dost  thou  deny  the  bag  of  gold  ? 

Adr.  I  did  not,  gentle  husband,  lock  thee  forth. 

Dro .  E.  And,  gentle  master,  I  received  no  gold ;  v 
But  I  confess,  sir,  that  we  were  lock’d  out. 

Adr.  Dissembling  villain,  thou  speak’st  false  in  both. 

Ant.  E.  Dissembling  harlot,  thou  art  false  in  all ; 

And  art  confederate  with  a  damned  pack 
To  make  a  loathsome  abject  scorn  of  me  : 

But  with  these  nails  I’ll  pluck  out  those  false  eyes, 

That  would  behold  in  me  this  shameful  sport. 

Adr.  O,  bind  him,  bind  him  !  let  him  not  come  near  me. 
Pinch.  More  company  !  —  The  fiend  is  strong  within  him. 
Luc.  Ah  me,  poor  man,  how  pale  and  wan  he  looks  ! 

Enter  three  or  four ,  who  assist  Pinch  in  binding  them. 

Ant.  E.  What,  will  you  murder  me?  —  Thou  jailer,  thou, 
.  I  am  thy  prisoner  :  wilt  thou  suffer  them 
To  make  a  rescue  ? 

Off.  Masters,  let  him  go  : 

He  is  my  prisoner,  and  you  shall  not  have  him. 

Pinch.  Go  bind  this  man,  for  he  is  frantic  too. 

Adr.  What  wilt  thou  do,  thou  peevish  officer? 

Hast  thou  delight  to  see  a  wretched  man 
Do  outrage  and  displeasure  to  himself? 

Off.  He  is  my  prisoner  :  if  I  let  him  go, 

The  debt  he  owes  will  be  required  of  me. 

Adr.  I  will  discharge  thee  ere  I  go  from  thee  : 

Bear  me  forthwith  unto  his  creditor, 


132 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  IV. 


And,  knowing  how  the  debt  grows,  I  will  pay  it.  — 

Good  master  doctor,  see  him  safe  convey’d 
Home  to  my  house.  —  O  most  unhappy  day  ! 

Ant.  E.  O  most  unhappy  9  strumpet ! 

Dro.  E.  Master,  I’m  here  enter’d  in  bond  for  you. 

Ant.  E.  Out  on  thee,  villain  !  wherefore  dost  thou  mad 
me? 

Dro.  E.  Will  you  be  bound  for  nothing?  be  mad,  good 
master;  cry,  The  Devil / 

Luc.  God  help,  poor  souls,  how  idly  do  they  talk  ! 

Adr.  Go  bear  him  hence.  —  Sister,  go  you  with  me.  — 

\_Exeunt  Pinch  and  Assistants  with  Ant.  E.  and  Dro.  E. 
Say  now  whose  suit  is  he  arrested  at  ? 

Off.  One  Angelo,  a  goldsmith  :  do  you  know  him  ? 

Adr.  I  know  the  man.  What  is  the  sum  he  owes? 

Off.  Two  hundred  ducats. 

Adr.  Say,  how  grows  it  due  ? 

Off.  Due  for  a  chain  your  husband  had  of  him. 

Adr.  He  did  bespeak  a  chain  for  me,  but  had  it  not. 

Cour.  Whenas  your  husband,  all  in  rage,  to-day 
Came  to  my  house,  and  took  away  my  ring,  — • 

The  ring  I  saw  upon  his  finger  now,  — 

Straight  after  did  I  meet  him  with  a  chain. 

Adr.  It  may  be  so,  but  I  did  never  see  it.  — 

Come,  jailer,  bring  me  where  the  goldsmith  is : 

I  long  to  know  the  truth  hereof  at  large. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Syracuse  and  Dromio  of  Syracuse 
with  their  rapiers  draw?i. 

Luc.  God,  for  Thy  mercy  !  they  are  loose  again. 

Adr.  And  come  with  naked  swords.  Let’s  call  more 
help, 

9  Unhappy  here  is  mischievous,  that  which  causes  ill  hap;  like  the  Latin 
infelix.  The  Poet  has  it  repeatedly  so. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


133 


To  have  them  bound  again. 

Off.  Away  !  they’ll  kill  us. 

[. Exeunt  Adriana,  Luciana,  the  Courtezan,  and  Officer. 
A?it.  S.  I  see  these  witches  are  afraid  of  swords. 

Dro.  S.  She  that  would  be  your  wife  now  ran  from  you. 
Ant.  S.  Come  to  the  Centaur;  fetch  our  stuff10  from 
thence  : 

I  long  that  we  were  safe  and  sound  aboard. 

Dro.  S.  Faith,  stay  here  this  night ;  they  will  surely  do  us 
no  harm  :  you  see  they  speak  us  fair,  give  us  gold  :  methinks 
they  are  such  a  gentle  nation,  that,  but  for  the  mountain  of 
mad  flesh  that  claims  marriage  of  me,  I  could  find  in  my 
heart  to  stay  here  still,  and  turn  witch. 

Ant.  S.  I  will  not  stay  to-night  for  all  the  town ; 

Therefore  away,  to  get  our  stuff  aboard.  [ Exeunt \ 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I.  —  Before  an  Abbey. 

Enter  Second  Merchant  and  Angelo. 

Ang.  I’m  sorry,  sir,  that  I  have  hinder’d  you ; 

But,  I  protest,  he  had  the  chain  of  me, 

Though  most  dishonestly  he  doth  deny  it. 

2  Mer.  How  is  the  man  esteem’d  here  in  the  city? 

Ang.  Of  very  reverend  reputation,  sir, 

Of  credit  infinite,  highly  beloved, 

Second  to  none  that  lives  here  in  the  city : 

His  word  might  bear  my  wealth  at  any  time. 

10  Stuff  here  means  luggage  or  movables.  So  in  St.  Luke,  xvii.  31 :  “  In 
that  day,  he  which  shall  fie  upon  the  house-top,  and  his  stuff  in  the  house, 
let  him  not  come  down  to  take  it  away.” 


134 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  V. 


2  Mer .  Speak  softly  :  yonder,  as  I  think,  he  walks. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Syracuse  and  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Ang.  Tis  so  ;  and  that  self  chain  about  his  neck, 

Which  he  forswore  most  monstrously  to  have. 

Good  sir,  draw  near  with  me,  I’ll  speak  to  him.  — - 

Signior  Antipholus,  I  wonder  much 

That  you  would  put  me  to  this  shame  and  trouble ; 

And,  not  without  some  scandal  to  yourself, 

With  circumstance  and  oaths  so  to  deny 
This  chain,  which  now  you  wear  so  openly : 

Besides  the  charge,  the  shame,  imprisonment, 

You  have  done  wrong  to  this  my  honest  friend ; 

Who,  but  for  staying  on  our  controversy, 

Had  hoisted  sail  and  put  to  sea  to-day : 

This  chain  you  had  of  me  ;  can  you  deny  it  ? 

Ant.  S.  I  think  I  had ;  I  never  did  deny  it. 

2  Mer.  Yes,  that  you  did,  sir,  and  forswore  it  too. 

Ant.  S.  Who  heard  me  to  deny  it  or  forswear  it? 

2  Mer.  These  ears  of  mine,  thou  know’st,  did  hear  thee  : 
Fie  on  thee,  wretch  !  ’tis  pity  that  thou  livest 
To  walk  where  any  honest  men  resort. 

Ant.  S.  Thou  art  a  villain  to  impeach  me  thus  : 

I’ll  prove  mine  honour  and  mine  honesty 
Against  thee  presently,  if  thou  darest  stand. 

2  Mer.  I  dare,  and  do  defy  thee  for  a  villain. 

\They  draw. 

Enter  Adriana,  Luciana,  the  Courtezan,  and  others. 

Adr.  Hold,  hurt  him  not,  for  God’s  sake  !  he  is  mad. — 
Some  get  within  him,1  take  his  sword  away  : 

Bind  Dromio  too,  and  bear  them  to  my  house. 


1  Get  inside  of  his  blows ;  that  is,  grapple  with  him. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


135 


Dro.  S.  Run,  master,  run  ;  for  God’s  sake,  take  a  house  !  2 
This  is  some  priory  :  in,  or  we  are  spoil’d. 

[. Exeunt  Ant.  S.  and  Dro.  S.  into  the  abbey . 

Enter  the  Abbess. 

Abb.  Be  quiet,  people.  Wherefore  throng  you  hither  ? 
Adr.  To  fetch  my  poor  distracted  husband  hence. 

Let  us  cofhe  in,  that  we  may  bind  him  fast, 

And  bear  him  home  for  his  recovery. 

A  jig.  I  knew  he  was  not  in  his  perfect  wits. 

2  Mer.  I’m  sorry  now  that  I  did  draw  on  him. 

Abb.  How  long  hath  this  possession  held  the  rpan  ? 

Adr.  This  week  he  hath  been  heavy,  sour,3  sad, 

And  too  much  different  from  the  man  he  was ; 

But  till  this  afternoon  his  passion 
Ne’er  brake  into  extremity  of  rage. 

Abb.  Hath  he  not  lost  much  wealth  by  wreck  of  sea? 
Buried  some  dear  friend  ?  Hath  not  else  his  eye 
Stray’d  4  his  affection  in  unlawful  love,  — 

A  sin  prevailing  much  in  youthful  men, 

Who  give  their  eyes  the  liberty  of  gazing? 

Which  of  these  sorrows  is  he  subject  to? 

Adr.  To  none  of  these,  except  it  be  the  last ; 

Namely,  some  love  that  drew  him  oft  from  home. 

Abb.  You  should  for  that  have  reprehended  him. 

Adr.  Why,  so  I  did. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  rough  enough. 

Adr.  As  roughly  as  my  modesty  would  let  me. 

Abb.  Haply,  in  private. 

Adr.  And  in  assemblies  too. 

2  As  we  still  say  take  refuge ,  and  take  sanctuary. 

3  Sour  is  here  a  dissyllable,  as  hour  and  hire  before. 

4  Stray'd  is  here  a  causative  verb,  meaning  misled,  or  made  to  stray ;  a 
singular  use  of  the  word. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  V. 


136 


Abb.  Ay,  but  not  enough. 

Adr.  It  was  the  copy  of  our  conference  :  5 
In  bed,  he  slept  not  for  my  urging  it ; 

At  board,  he  fed  not  for  my  urging  it ; 

Alone,  it  was  the  subject  of  my  theme ; 

In  company  I  often  glanced  at  it ; 

Still  did  I  tell  him  it  was  vile  and  bad. 

Abb.  And  thereof  came  it  that  the  man  was  mad  : 

The  venom-clamours  of  a  jealous  woman 
Poison  more  deadly  than  a  mad-dog’s  tooth. 

It  seems  his  sleeps  were  hinder’d  by  thy  railing : 

And  thereof  comes  it  that  his  head  is  light. 

Thou  say’st  his  meat  was  sauced  with  thy  upbraidings  : 
Unquiet  meals  make  ill  digestions,  — 

Thereof  the  raging  fire  of  fever  bred  ; 

And  what’s  a  fever  but  a  fit  of  madness  ? 

Thou  say’st  his  sports  were  hinder’d  by  thy  brawls : 

Sweet  recreation  barr’d,  what  doth  ensue 
But  moody,  moping,  and  dull  melancholy, 

Kinsman  to  grim  and  comfortless  despair ; 

And  at  her  6  heels  a  huge  infectious  troop 
Of  pale  distemperatures  and  foes  to  life? 

In  food,  in  sport,  and  life-preserving  rest 
To  be  disturb’d,  would  mad  or  man  or  beast : 

The  consequence  is,  then,  thy  jealous  fits 
Have  scared  thy  husband  from  the  use  of  wits. 

Luc.  She  never  reprehended  him  but  mildly, 

When  he  demean’d  himself  rough-rude  and  wildly.  — 

Why  bear  you  these  rebukes,  and  answer  not  ? 

6  Copy  here  seems  to  mean  principal  topic  or  theme  ;  that  is,  the  pattern 
or  form  after  which  the  conversation  was  shaped. 

6  Her ,  referring  to  kinsman ,  sounds  rather  ajar ;  but  kinsman  has  merely 
the  sense  of  akin.  The  Poet  elsewhere  indulges  a  like  confusion  of  genders ; 
as  in  The  Merchant ,  iii.  2 :  “  But  now  I  was  the  lord  of  this  fair  mansion, 
master  o’er  my  servants,  queen  o’er  myself.” 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


1 37 


Adr.  She  did  betray  me  to  my  own  reproof.  — 

Good  people,  enter,  and  lay  hold  on  him. 

Abb.  No,  not  a  creature  enters  in  my  house. 

Adr.  Then  let  your  servants  bring  my  husband  forth. 

Abb.  Neither  :  he  took  this  place  for  sanctuary, 

And  it  shall  privilege  him  from  your  hands 
Till  I  have  brought  him  to  his  wits  again, 

Or  lose  my  labor  in  assaying  it. 

Adr.  I  will  attend  my  husband,  be  his  nurse, 

Diet  his  sickness,  for  it  is  my  office, 

And  will  have  no  attorney  but  myself ; 

And  therefore  let  me  have  him  home  with  me. 

Abb.  Be  patient ;  for  I  will  not  let  him  stir 
Till  I  have  used  tlT  approved  means  I  have, 

With  wholesome  syrups,  drugs,  and  holy  prayers, 

To  make  of  him  a  formal  man  7  again  : 

It  is  a  branch  and  parcel  of  mine  oath, 

A  charitable  duty  of  my  order. 

Therefore  depart,  and  leave  him  here  with  me. 

Adr.  I  will  not  hence,  and  leave  my  husband  here  : 

And  ill  it  doth  beseem  your  holiness 
To  separate  the  husband  and  the  wife. 

Abb.  Be  quiet,  and  depart :  thou  shalt  not  have  him. 

\_Exit. 

Luc.  Complain  unto  the  Duke  of  this  indignity. 

Adr.  Come,  go  :  I  will  fall  prostrate  at  his  feet, 

And  never  rise  until  my  tears  and  prayers 
Have  won  his  Grace  to  come  in  person  hither, 

And  take  perforce  my  husband  from  the  Abbess. 

2  Mer.  By  this,  I  think,  the  dial  points  at  five  : 

Anon,  I’m  sure,  the  Duke  himself  in  person 
Comes  this  way  to  the  melancholy  vale, 


7  A  formal  man  is  a  rational  man,  one  whose  mind  is  in  due  form. 


•38 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  V. 


The  place  of  death  and  sorry  execution, 

Behind  the  ditches  of  the  abbey  here. 

Ang.  Upon  what  cause  ? 

2  Mer.  To  see  a  reverend  Syracusian  merchant. 

Who  put  unluckily  into  this  bay 
Against  the  laws  and  statutes  of  this  town, 

Beheaded  publicly  for  his  offence. 

Ang.  See  where  they  come  :  we  will  behold  his  death. 

Luc.  Kneel  to  the  Duke  before  he  pass  the  abbey. 

Enter  the  Duke,  attended ;  AEgeon  bareheaded ;  with  the 
Headsman  and  other  Officers. 

Duke.  Yet  once  again  proclaim  it  publicly, 

If  any  friend  will  pay  the  sum  for  him, 

He  shall  not  die,  so  much  we  tender  him. 

Adr.  Justice,  most  sacred  Duke,  against  the  Abbess  ! 

Duke.  She  is  a  virtuous  and  a  reverend  lady : 

It  cannot  be  that  she  hath  done  thee  wrong. 

Adr.  May’t  please  your  Grace,  Antipholus  my  husband, — 
Who  I  made  lord  of  me  and  all  I  had, 

At  your  important 8  letters,  —  this  ill  day 
A  most  outrageous  fit  of  madness  took  him ; 

That  desperately  he  hurried  through  the  street,  — 

With  him  his  bondman,  all  as  mad  as  he,  — 

Doing  displeasure  to  the  citizens 
By  rushing  in  their  houses,  bearing  thence 
Rings,  jewels,  any  thing  his  rage  did  like. 

8  Important  for  importunate.  So  in  King  Lear ,  iv.  4 :  “  Therefore  great 
France  my  mourning  and  important  tears  hath  pitied.”  —  Upon  the  passage 
in  the  text,  Malone  notes  as  follows :  “  Shakespeare  was  thinking  particu¬ 
larly  on  the  interest  which  the  king  had  in  England  in  the  marriage  of  his 
wards ;  who  were  the  heirs  of  his  tenants  holding  by  knight’s  service,  or  in 
capite,  and  were  under  age; — an  interest  which  Queen  Elizabeth  exerted 
on  all  occasions,  as  did  her  successors,  till  the  abolition  of  the  Court  of 
Wards  and  Liveries.  The  Poet  attributes  to  the  Duke  the  same  right  to 
choose  a  wife  or  a  husband  for  his  wards  at  Ephesus.” 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


139 


Once  did  I  get  him  bound,  and  sent  him  home, 

Whilst  to  take  order  9  for  the  wrongs  I  went, 

That  here  and  there  his  fury  had  committed. 

Anon,  I  wot  not  by  what  strange  escape, 

He  broke  from  those  that  had  the  guard  of  him ; 

And  then  his  mad  attendant  and  himself, 

Each  one  with  ireful  passion,  with  drawn  swords, 

Met  us  again,  and,  madly  bent  on  us, 

Chased  us  away  ;  till,  raising  of  more  aid, 

We  came  again  to  bind  them.  Then  they  fled 
Into  this  abbey,  whither  we  pursued  them ; 

And  here  the  Abbess  shuts  the  gates  on  us, 

And  will  not  suffer,  us  to  fetch  him  out, 

Nor  send  him  forth,  that  we  may  bear  him  hence. 

Therefore,  most  gracious  Duke,  with  thy  command 
Let  him  be  brought  forth,  and  borne  hence  for  help. 

Duke.  Long  since  thy  husband  served  me  in  my  wars ; 
And  I  to  thee  engaged  a  prince’s  word, 

When  thou  didst  make  him  master  of  thy  bed, 

To  do  him  all  the  grace  and  good  I  could.  — 

Go,  some  of  you,  knock  at  the  abbey-gate, 

And  bid  the  Lady  Abbess  come  to  me.  — 

I  will  determine  this  before  I  stir. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Sen k  O  mistress,  mistress,  shift  and  save  yourself! 

My  master  and  his  man  are  both  broke  loose, 

Beaten  the  maids  a-row,10  and  bound  the  doctor, 

Whose  beard  they  have  singed  off  with  brands  of  fire ; 

And  ever,  as  it  blazed,  they  threw  on  him 
Great  pails  of  puddled  mire  to  quench  the  hair : 

9  “  Take  order  ”  is  the  old  phrase  for  take  Jtieasures,  or  make  arrange¬ 
ments.  Shakespeare  has  it  repeatedly  so. 

10  A-row  is  in  succession  or  one  after  another. 


140 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  v. 


My  master  preaches  patience  to  him,  and  the  while 
His  man  with  scissors  nicks  him  like  a  fool ; 11 
And  sure,  unless  you  send  some  present  help, 

Between  them  they  will  kill  the  conjurer. 

A  dr.  Peace,  fool !  thy  master  and  his  man  are  here  ; 

And  that  is  false  thou  dost  report  to  us. 

Serv.  Mistress,  upon  my  life,  I  tell  you  true  ; 

I  have  not  breathed  almost  since  I  did  see  it. 

He  cries  for  you,  and  vows,  if  he  can  take  you, 

To  scotch  12  your  face,  and  to  disfigure  you.  [  Cry  within. 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear  him,  mistress  :  fly,  be  gone  ! 

Duke.  Come,  stand  by  me  ;  fear  nothing.  —  Guard  with 
halberds  ! 

Adr.  Ah  me,  it  is  my  husband  !  Witness  you, 

That  he  is  borne  about  invisible  : 

Even  now  we  housed  him  in  the  abbey  here ; 

And  now  he’s  there,  past  thought  of  human  reason. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephesus  and  Dromio  of  Ephesus. 

Ant.  E.  Justice,  most  gracious  Duke,  O,  grant  me  justice  ! 
Even  for  the  service  that  long  since  I  did  thee, 

When  I  bestrid  thee  13  in  the  wars,  and  took 
Deep  scars  to  save  thy  life ;  even  for  the  blood 
That  then  I  lost  for  thee,  now  grant  me  justice. 

AEge.  Unless  the  fear  of  death  doth  make  me  dote, 

I  see  my  son  Antipholus,  and  Dromio. 

Ant.  E.  Justice,  sweet  Prince,  against  that  woman  there  ! 

The  hair  of  fools  was  cut  into  notches  or  nicks.  So  in  The  Choice  of 
Change ,  1598  :  “Three  things  used  by  monks  which  provoke  other  men  to 
laugh  at  their  follies.  1.  They  are  shaven  and  notched  on  the  head  like 
fooles." 

12  To  scotch  is  to  score  or  cut  slightly.  So  in  Macbeth ,  iii.  2 :  “  We  have 
but  scotch'd  the  snake,  not  kill’d  it.” 

13  To  bestride  one  when  down  in  battle  was  considered  a  high  act  of 
service.  So,  in  1  Henry  IV.,  v.  1,  Falstaff  says  to  the  Prince,  “  Hal,  if  thou 
see  me  down  in  the  battle,  and  bestride  me,  so ;  ’tis  a  point  of  friendship.” 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


141 


She  whom  thou  gavest  to  me  to  be  my  wife, 

That  hath  abused  and  dishonour’d  me 
Even  in  the  strength  and  height  of  injury : 

Beyond  imagination  is  the  wrong 

That  she  this  day  hath  shameless  thrown  on  me. 

Duke.  Discover  how,  and  thou  shalt  find  me  just. 

Ant .  E.  This  day,  great  Duke,  she  shut  the  doors  upon  me, 
While  she  with  harlots  14  feasted  in  my  house. 

Duke.  A  grievous  fault.  —  Say,  woman,  didst  thou  so  ? 

A  dr.  No,  my  good  lord  :  myself,  he,  and  my  sister, 
To-day  did  dine  together.  So  befall  my  soul, 

As  this  is  false  he  burdens  me  withal ! 

Luc.  Ne’er  may  I  look  on  day,  nor  sleep  on  night, 

But  she  tells  to  your  Highness  simple  truth  ! 

Ang.  O  perjured  woman  !  —  They  are  both  forsworn  > 

In  this  the  madman  justly  chargeth  them. 

Ant.  E.  My  liege,  I  am  advised 15  what  I  say ; 

Neither  disturbed  with  th’  effect  of  wine, 

Nor  heady-rash,  provoked  with  raging  ire, 

Albeit  my  wrongs  might  make  one  wiser  mad. 

This  woman  lock’d  me  out  this  day  from  dinner  : 

That  goldsmith  there,  were  he  not  pack’d  16  with  her, 

Could  witness  it,  for  he  was  with  me  then ; 

Who  parted  with  me  to  go  fetch  a  chain, 

Promising  to  bring  it  to  the  Porpentine, 

Where  Balthazar  and  I  did  dine  together. 

Our  dinner  done,  and  he  not  coming  thither, 

I  went  to  seek  him  :  in  the  street  I  met  him, 

And  in  his  company  that  gentleman. 

14  Harlot  was  formerly  a  general  term  of  reproach,  applied  to  certain 
descriptions  of  men,  as  well  as  to  loose  women. 

15  Advised ,  here,  is  circumspect ,  cofisiderate,  or  calmly  assured  of.  Re¬ 
peatedly  thus. 

16  Pack'd  is  leagued  or  confederate.  Pact  is  still  used  for  agreement  or 
co?npact. 


142 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  V. 


There  did  this  perjured  goldsmith  swear  me  down 
That  I  this  day  of  him  received  the  chain, 

Which,  God  he  knows,  I  saw  not :  for  the  which 
He  did  arrest  me  with  an  officer. 

I  did  obey ;  and  sent  my  peasant  home 
For  certain  ducats  :  he  with  none  return’d.  # 

Then  fairly  I  bespoke  the  officer 
To  go  in  person  with  me  to  my  house. 

By  th’  way  we  met 

My  wife,  her  sister,  and  a  rabble  more 

Of  vile  confederates.  Along  with  them 

They  brought  one  Pinch,  a  hungry  lean-faced  villain, 

A  mere  anatomy,  a  mountebank, 

A  threadbare  juggler,  and  a  fortune-teller, 

A  needy,  hollow-eyed,  sharp-looking  wretch, 

A  living-dead  man  :  this  pernicious  slave, 

Forsooth,  took  on  him  as  a  conjuror ; 

And,  gazing  in  mine  eyes,  feeling  my  pulse, 

And  with  no  face,  as  ’twere,  outfacing  me, 

Cries  out,  I  was  possess’d.  Then  all  together 
They  fell  upon  me,  bound  me,  bore  me  thence, 

And  in  a  dark  and  dankish  vault  at  home 
They  left  me  and  my  man,  both  bound  together ; 

Till,  gnawing  with  my  teeth  my  bonds  in  sunder, 

I  gain’d  my  freedom,  and  immediately 
Ran  hither  to  your  Grace  ;  whom  I  beseech 
To  give  me  ample  satisfaction 
For  these  deep  shames  and  great  indignities. 

Ang.  My  lord,  in  truth,  thus  far  I  witness  with  him, 
That  he  dined  not  at  home,  but  was  lock’d  out. 

Duke .  But  had  he  such  a  chain  of  thee  or  no  ? 

Ang.  He  had,  my  lord  :  and  when  he  ran  in  here, 
These  people  saw  the  chain  about  his  neck. 

2  Mer.  Besides,  I  will  be  sworn  these  ears  of  mine 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


M3 


Heard  you  confess  you  had  the  chain  of  him, 

After  you  first  forswore  it  on  the  mart : 

And  thereupon  I  drew  my  sword  on  you ; 

And  then  you  fled  into  this  abbey  here, 

From  whence,  I  think,  you’re  come  by  miracle. 

Ant.  E.  I  never  came  within  these  abbey-walls ; 

Nor  ever  didst  thou  draw  thy  sword  on  me  : 

I  never  saw  the  chain.  So  help  me  Heaven, 

As  this  is  false  you  burden  me  withal ! 

Duke.  Why,  what  an  intricate  impeach  17  is  this  ! 

I  think  you  all  have  drunk  of  Circe’s  cup. 

If  here  you  housed  him,  here  he  would  have  been ; 

If  he  were  mad,  he  would  not  plead  so  coldly  :  — 

You  say  he  dined  at  home  ;  the  goldsmith  here 
Denies  that  saying.  —  Sirrah,  what  say  you  ? 

Dro.  E.  Sir, 

He  dined  with  her  there,  at  the  Porpentine. 

Cour.  He  did ;  and  from  my  finger  snatch’d  that  ring. 
Ant.  E.  ’Tis  true,  my  liege  ;  this  ring  I  had  of  her. 

Duke.  Saw’st  thou  him  enter  at  the  abbey  here  ? 

Cour.  As  sure,  my  liege,  as  I  do  see  your  Grace. 

Duke.  Why,  this  is  strange.  —  Go  call  the  Abbess  hither.  — ■ 

\_Exit  an  Attendant. 

I  think  you  are  all  mated  18  or  stark  mad. 

AEge.  Most  mighty  Duke,  vouchsafe  me  speak  a  word  : 
Haply  I  see  a  friend  will  save  my  life, 

And  pay  the  sum  that  may  deliver  me. 

Duke.  Speak  freely,  Syracusian,  what  thou  wilt. 
sEge.  Is  not  your  name,  sir,  call’d  Antipholus? 

And  is  not  that  your  bondman  Dromio  ? 

Dro.  E.  Within  this  hour  I  was  his  bondman,  sir, 

17  Impeach  for  impeachment ,  that  is,  accusation.  So  the  Poet  has  suspect 
for  suspicion  repeatedly ;  and  dispose  for  disposal  or  disposition. 

18  Mated  is  confounded  or  bewildered.  See  page  no,  note  27. 


144 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  V. 


But  he,  I  thank  him,  gnaw’d  in  two  my  cords  : 

Now  I  am  Dromio,  and  his  man  unbound. 

Age.  I’m  sure  you  both  of  you  remember  me. 

Dro.  E .  Ourselves  we  do  remember,  sir,  by  you ; 

For  lately  we  were  bound,  as  you  are  now. 

You  are  not  Pinch’s  patient,  are  you,  sir? 

Age.  Why  look  you  strange  on  me  ?  you  know  me  well. 
Ant.  E.  I  never  saw  you  in  my  life  till  now. 

Age.  O,  grief  hath  changed  me  since  you  saw  me  last, 
And  careful  hours  with  Time’s  deformed  19  hand 
Have  written  strange  defeatures  in  my  face  : 

But  tell  me  yet,  dost  thou  not  know  my  voice  ? 

Ant.  E.  Neither. 

Age.  Dromio,  nor  thou  ? 

Dro.  E.  No,  trust  me,  sir,  nor  I. 

Age.  I  am  sure  thou  dost. 

Dro.  E.  Ay,  sir,  but  I  am  sure  I  do  not ;  and  whatsoever 
a  man  denies,  you  are  now  bound  to  believe  him. 

Age.  Not  know  my  voice  !  O  time’s  extremity, 

Hast  thou  so  crack’d  and  splitted  my  poor  tongue 
In  seven  short  years,  that  here  my  only  son 
Knows  not  my  feeble  key  of  untuned  cares? 

Though  now  this  grained  face  of  mine  be  hid 
In  sap-consuming  Winter’s  drizzled  snow, 

And  all  the  conduits  of  my  blood  froze  up, 

Yet  hath  my  night  of  life  some  memory, 

My  wasting  lamp  some  fading  glimmer  left, 

My  dull  deaf  ears  a  little  use  to  hear  : 

All  these  old  witnesses  —  I  cannot  err  — 

Tell  me  thou  art  my  son  Antipholus. 

Ant.  E.  I  never  saw  my  father  in  my  life. 

Age.  But  seven  years  since,  in  Syracusa,  boy, 

19  Deformed  for  deforming ;  the  active  and  passive  forms  being  then 
often  used  interchangeably. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


Abb.  "Whoever  bound  him,  I  will  loose  his  bonds, 
And  gain  a  husband  by  his  liberty  ” 


Comedy  of  Errors.  Act  5,  Scene  1 


Page  145 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


145 


Thou  know’st  we  parted  :  but  perhaps,  my  son, 

Thou  shamest  t’  acknowledge  me  in  misery. 

Ant.  E.  The  Duke,  and  all  that  know  me  in  the  city, 

Can  witness  with  me  that  it  is  not  so  : 

I  ne’er  saw  Syracusa  in  my  life. 

Duke.  I  tell  thee,  Syracusian,  twenty  years 
Have  I  been  patron  to  Antipholus, 

During  which  time  he  ne’er  saw  Syracusa : 

I  see  thy  age  and  dangers  make  thee  dote. 

Re-enter  the  Abbess,  with  Antipholus  of  Syracuse  and 

Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Abb.  Most  mighty  Duke,  behold  a  man  much  wrong’d. 

\_All gather  to  see  them. 

Adr ..  I  see  two  husbands,  or  mine  eyes  deceive  me. 

Duke.  One  of  these  men  is  Genius  to  the  other ; 

And  so  of  these.  Which  is  the  natural  man, 

And  which  the  spirit  ?  who  deciphers  them  ? 

Dro.  S.  I,  sir,  am  Dromio  :  command  him  away. 

Dro.  E.  I,  sir,  am  Dromio  :  pray,  let  me  stay. 

Ant.  S.  /Egeon  art  thou  not?  or  else  his  ghost? 

Dro.  S.  O,  my  old  master  !  who  hath  bound  him  here  ? 
Abb.  Whoever  bound  him,  I  will  loose  his  bonds, 

And  gain  a  husband  by  his  liberty.  — 

Speak,  old  /Egeon,  if  thou  be’st  the  man 
That  hadst  a  wife  once  call’d  /Emilia, 

That  bore  thee  at  a  burden  two  fair  sons  : 

O,  if  thou  be’st  the  same  /Egeon,  speak, 

And  speak  unto  the  same  /Emilia  ! 

AEge.  If  I  dream  not,  thou  art  ./Emilia  : 

If  thou  art  she,  tell  me  where  is  that  son 
That  floated  with  thee  on  the  fatal  raft  ? 

Abb.  By  men  of  Epidamnum  he  and  I 
And  the  twin  Dromio,  all  were  taken  up ; 


146 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


ACT  V. 


But  by-and-by  rude  fishermen  of  Corinth 
By  force  took  Dromio  and  my  son  from  them, 

And  me  they  left  with  those  of  Epidamnum. 

What  then  became  of  them  I  cannot  tell ; 

I  to  this  fortune  that  you  see  me  in. 

Duke.  Why,  here  begins  his  morning  story  20  right : 

These  two  Antipholus’,  these  two  so  like, 

And  these  two  Dromios,  one  in  semblance,  — 

Besides  her  urging  of  the  wreck  at  sea,  — 

These  are  the  parents  to  these  children, 

Which  accidentally  are  met  together.  — 

Antipholus,  thou  earnest  from  Corinth  first  ? 

Ant.  S.  No,  sir,  not  I ;  I  came  from  Syracuse. 

Duke.  Stay,  stand  apart ;  I  know  not  which  is  which. 

Ant.  E.  I  came  from  Corinth,  my  most  gracious  lord,  — 
Dro.  E.  And  I  with  him. 

Ant.  E.  —  Brought  to  this  town  by  that  most  famous 
warrior, 

Duke  Menaphon,  your  most  renowned  uncle. 

Adr.  Which  of  you  two  did  dine  with  me  to-day  ? 

Ant.  S.  I,  gentle  mistress. 

Adr.  And  are  not  you  my  husband? 

Ant.  E.  No ;  I  say  nay  to  that. 

Ant.  S.  And  so  do  I ;  yet  did  she  call  me  so  : 

And  this  fair  gentlewoman,  her  sister  here, 

Did  call  me  brother.  —  \To  Luc.]  What  I  told  you  then, 

I  hope  I  shall  have  leisure  to  make  good ; 

If  this  be  not  a  dream  I  see  and  hear. 

Ang.  That  is  the  chain,  sir,  which  you  had  of  me. 

Ant.  S.  I  think  it  be,  sir;  I  deny  it  not. 

Ant.  E.  And  you,  sir,  for  this  chain  arrested  me. 

Ang.  I  think  I  did,  sir ;  I  deny  it  not. 

20  The  “morning  story"  is  what  HLgeon  tells  the  Duke  in  the  first  scene 
of  the  play. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


147 


Adr .  I  sent  you  money,  sir,  to  be  your  bail, 

By  Dromio ;  but  I  think  he  brought  it  not. 

Dro .  E.  No,  none  by  me. 

Ant.  S.  This  purse  of  ducats  I  received  from  you, 

And  Dromio  my  man  did  bring  them  me. 

I  see  we  still  did  meet  each  other’s  man ; 

And  I  was  ta’en  for  him,  and  he  for  me ; 

And  thereupon  these  errors  all  arose. 

Ant.  E.  These  ducats  pawn  I  for  my  father  here. 

Duke.  It  shall  not  need  ;  thy  father  has  his  life. 

Cour.  Sir,  I  must  have  that  diamond  from  you. 

Ant.  E.  There,  take  it;  and  much  thanks  for  my  good 
cheer. 

Abb.  Renowned  Duke,  vouchsafe  to  take  the  pains 
To  go  with  us  into  the  abbey  here, 

And  hear  at  large  discoursed  all  our  fortunes  ;  — 

And  all  that  are  assembled  in  this  place, 

That  by  this  sympathized  one  day’s  error 
Have  suffer’d  wrong,  go  keep  us  company, 

And  we  shall  make  full  satisfaction.  — 

Twenty-five  years  have  I  but  gone  in  travail 
Of  you,  my  sons  ;  and,  till  this  present  hour, 

My  heavy  burden  ne’er  delivered.  — 

The  Duke,  my  husband,  and  my  children  both, 

And  you  the  calendars  of  their  nativity,21 
Go  to  a  gossips’  feast,22  and  joy  with  me ; 

After  so  long  grief,  such  felicity  ! 

21  The  two  Dromios  are  called  the  calendars  of  their  masters’  nativity 
because  they  were  born  the  same  day.  See  page  87,  note  8. 

22  “A  gossips'  feast”  is,  literally,  a  feast  of  sponsors ;  gossip  being  from 
God  sib,  and  sib  meaning  kin.  Sponsors  were  wont  to  have  a  merry  feast 
together  after  answering  at  the  Font;  and  such  feasts  were  apt  occasions 
for  gossipping  in  our  sense  of  the  term.  The  word  is  used  here  because 
^Emilia  has  just  spoken  of  her  sons  as  newly  born,  which  implied  them  to 
be  candidates  for  baptism. 


ACT  V 


I48  THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

Duke.  With  all  my  heart,  I’ll  gossip  at  this  feast. 

\_Exeunt  the  Duke,  Abbess,  ^Egeon,  Courtezan, 
Sec.  Merchant,  Angelo,  and  Attendants. 
Dro.  S.  Master,  shall  I  go  fetch  your  stuff  from  shipboard  ? 
A?it.  E.  Dromio,  what  stuff  of  mine  hast  thou  embark’d  ? 
Dro.  S.  Your  goods  that  lay  at  host,  sir,  in  the  Centaur. 
Ant.  S.  He  speaks  to  me.  —  I  am  your  master,  Dromio  : 
Come,  go  with  us ;  we’ll  look  to  that  anon  : 

Embrace  thy  brother  there  ;  rejoice  with  him. 

\_Exeunt  Ant.  S.  and  Ant.  E.,  Adr.  and  Luc. 
Dro.  S.  There  is  a  fat  friend  at  your  master’s  house, 

That  kitchen’d  me  for  you  to-day  at  dinner  : 

She  now  shall  be  my  sister,  not  my  wife. 

Dro.  E.  Methinks  you  are  my  glass,  and  not  my  brother : 
I  see  by  you  I  am  a  sweet-faced  youth. 

Will  you  walk  in  to  see  their  gossiping? 

Dro.  S.  Not  I,  sir;  you  are  my  elder. 

Dro.  E.  That’s  a  question  :  how  shall  we  try  it  ? 

Dro.  S.  We’ll  draw  cuts  for  the  senior :  till  then  lead 
thou  first. 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  then,  thus  : 

We  came  into  the  world  like  brother  and  brother ; 

And  now  let’s  go  hand  in  hand,  not  one  before  another. 

[Exeufit. 


Dro.  E.  "  Methinks  you  are  my  glass,  and  not  my  brother : 
I  see  by  you  I  am  a  sweet-faced  youth." 

Act  5,  Scene  1 . 


Comedy  of  Errors 


Page  148 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

IImivcojuy  OF  ILLINOI0 


« 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


- * - 

Act  i.,  Scene  i. 

Page  80.  Nay,  more,  if  any  born  at  Ephesus 
Be  seen  at  Syracusian  marts  and  fairs  ; 

Again ,  if  any  Syracusian  born 

Come  to  the  bay  of  Ephesus ,  &c.  —  Here,  in  the  second  line,  the 
original  reads  “seene  at  any  Syracusian”;  any  being  inserted  by  mis¬ 
take  from  the  occurrence  of  the  same  word  just  above  and  just  below. 
Pope’s  correction. 

P.  80.  To  quit  the  penalty  and  ransom  him.  —  The  original  repeats 
the  to  before  ransom.  Corrected  in  the  second  folio. 

P.  8i.  Happy  but  for  me , 

And  by  me  too,  had  not  our  hap  been  bad. — The  first  folio  omits 
too,  which  was  supplied  in  the  second. 

P.  81.  And  the  great  care  of  goods  at  random  left. — The  original 
has  “  And  he  great  care  of  goods.”  Corrected  by  Theobald. 

P.  81.  That  very  hour,  and  in  the  selfsame  inn, 

A  meaner  woman  was  delivered 

Of  such  a  burden.  —  The  original  reads  “A  meane  woman,” 
leaving  a  gap  in  the  verse ;  which  gap  the  second  folio  filled  by  insert¬ 
ing  poor.  This  can  hardly  be  right,  as  in  the  next  line  but  one  we 
have  “  their  parents  were  exceeding  poor.”  Walker  says,  “  Read 
‘  A  meaner  woman  one  of  a  lower  rank  than  my  wife.” 

P.  82.  And  thus  it  was,  —  for  other  means  was  none  :  — 

The  sailors  sought  for  safety  by  our  boat,  &c.  —  So  Walker,  and 
rightly,  I  have  no  doubt.  The  old  copies,  “  And  this  it  was.” 

149 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


150 

P.  83.  We  were  encounter' d  by  a  mighty  rock  ; 

Which  being  violently  borne  upon, 

Our  hopeful  ship  was  splitted  in  the  midst.  —  The  original  has 
“  Our  help  fid  ship,”  which  can  hardly  be  right.  Rowe  changed  helpful 
to  helpless,  which  is  evidently  much  better.  Hopeful  was  proposed  by 
Mr.  Swynfen  Jervis,  and  certainly  accords  well  with  the  context.  —  In 
the  second  line,  the  first  folio  has  “  borne  up  " ;  the  second,  “  borne 
up  upon.” 

P.  83.  At  length,  the  other  ship  had  seized  on  us.  —  So  Hanmer; 
the  old  copies,  “ another  ship.”  The  correction  is  prompted,  and 
indeed  fairly  required  by  the  context. 

P.  83.  Thus  by  misfortune  was  my  life  prolong’d.  —  The  old  text 
has  That  instead  of  Thus,  which  is  Hanmer’s  reading. — The  original 
also  has  misfortunes.  Corrected  by  Dyce. 

P.  84.  What  hath  befall' n  of  them  and  thee.  —  So  the  second 
folio  ;  the  first,  “  What  have  befalne  of  them  and  they." 

P.  84.  And  impdrtuned  me 

That  his  attendant — for  his  case  was  like,  &c.  —  The  first  folio 
reads  “so  his  case  was  like.”  Corrected  in  the  second. 

P.  85.  I'll  limit  thee  this  day 

To  seek  thy  life  by  beneficial  help.  —  So  Pope,  followed  by  Theo¬ 
bald,  Hanmer,  White,  and  Dyce,  and  approved  by  Walker.  Of  course 
the  meaning  is,  “seek  to  save  thy  life.”  The  old  copies  read  “To  seek 
thy  help  by  beneficial  help”;  which  is  palpably  wrong.  Staunton 
reads  “To  seek  thy  hope]'  &c. 

P.  85.  Beg  thou,  or  borrow,  to  make  up  the  sum. 

And  live  ;  if  not,  then  thou  art  doom'd  to  die.  — 

Jailer,  now  take  him  to  thy  custody.  — The  original  has  “if  no" ; 
“  a  stark  error,”  says  Dyce.  —  In  the  last  line,  now,  wanting  in  the  old 
copies,  is  supplied  by  Hanmer  and  Collier’s  second  folio.  Walker 
proposes  “Go,  jailer,  take,”  &c.  I  am  not  sure  but  Capell’s  reading, 
“  So,  jailer,  take,”  &c.,  is  the  best  of  all. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


151 


Act  11.,  Scene  i. 

P.  90.  Look,  when  I  serve  him  so,  he  takes  it  ill.  —  So  the  second 
folio ;  the  first,  “he  takes  it  thus” ;  a  manifest  error. 

P.  90.  Men,  more  divine,  the  masters  of  all  these , 

Lords  of  all  the  wide  world,  &c.  —  Instead  of  Men,  masters, 
and  Lords,  the  original  has  Man,  Master,  and  Lord ;  a  reading  which, 

I  believe,  no  modern  editor  retains.  The  last  line  of  the  speech  but 
one  corrects  the  error. 

P.  91.  LLow  if  your  husband  start  some  other  hare? — So  John¬ 
son  proposed  to  read.  The  original  has  “  some  otherwhere .”  See 
foot-note  2. 

P.  94.  L  see  the  jewel  best  enamelled 

Will  lose  his  beauty  ;  and  though  gold  bides  still 
The  triers’  touch,  yet  often-touching  will 
Wear  gold  :  and  so  a  man,  that  hath  a  name. 

By  falsehood  and  corruption  doth  it  shame.  —  This  passage  is  so 
crowded  with  errors  in  the  original,  that  nothing  will  do  but  to  quote 
the  old  reading  literatim  : 

I  see  the  Jewell  best  enameled 

Will  lose  his  beautie :  yet  the  gold  bides  still 

That  others  touch,  and  often  touching  will, 

Where  gold  and  no  man  that  hath  a  name, 

By  falsehood  and  corruption  doth  it  shame. 

Much  labour  and  ingenuity  have  been  spent  by  divers  editors  in  trying 
to  bring  some  sort  of  order  and  sense  out  of  this  confusion  and  non¬ 
sense.  I  have  combined  the  results  of  their  several  labours  according 
to  my  best  judgment.  Probably  there  will  never  be  a  full  agreement 
as  to  how  the  errors  should  be  corrected.  The  change  of  “ That 
others  touch  ”  to  “  The  triers’  touch  ”  is  Singer’s.  Heath  proposed 
the  reading,  “  and  so  a  man.” 

Act  11.,  Scene  2. 

P.  95.  Your  sauciness  will  jet  upon  my  love, 

And  make  a  common  of  my  serious  hours.  — The  original  reads 
“  will  jest  upon  ” ;  probably,  as  Dyce  observes,  from  the  occurrence  of 


152 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


jest  a  little  before  and  a  little  after.  The  happy  correction,  for  such  I 
deem  it,  is  Dyce’s ;  who  notes  upon  the  passage  thus :  “  The  second 
line  so  obviously  leads  to  the  correction  which  I  have  now  made,  that 
I  wonder  how  it  escaped  the  commentators.”  See  foot-notes  i  and  2. 

P.  98.  Nay,  not  sure ,  in  a  thing  falling.  —  The  old  copies  read 
“  in  a  thing  falsing .”  Falling  was  proposed  by  Heath,  and  is  adopted 
by  White,  who  shows  conclusively,  I  think,  that  falsing  has  no  cohe¬ 
rence  with  the  context ;  and  asks,  as  he  well  may,  “  in  what  possible 
sense  is  the  hair  falsing?  ” 

P.  98.  The  one,  to  save  the  money  that  he  spends  in  trimming.  — 
So  Rowe  and  Dyce.  The  original  has  trying,  which  Pope  changed  to 
tiring.  As  Dromio  is  speaking  of  the  hair,  trimming  is  evidently 
more  suitable. 

P.  98.  Namely,  no  time  to  recover  hair  lost  by  nature.  —  So  the 
second  folio  ;  the  first,  “namely  in  no  time,”  &c. 

P.  99.  How  comes  it  now,  ?ny  husband,  O,  how  comes  it. 

That  thou  art  thus  estranged  from  thyself?  — So  Rowe  and 
Collier’s  second  folio.  The  original  reads  “That  thou  art  then 
estranged.” 

P.  99.  Iam  possess'd  with  an  adulterate  blot ; 

My  blood  is  mingled  with  the  grime  of  lust.  —  The  old  copies 
read  “  the  crime  of  lust.”  The  word  blot,  in  the  preceding  line,  makes, 
as  Warburton  remarks,  strongly  in  favour  of  grime,  which  means  stain 
or  smut ;  and  Dyce,  who  adopts  grime,  notes  that  “our  early  printers 
often  confounded  the  letters  c  and  g  at  the  beginning  of  words.” 

P.  99.  I  live  unstain’d,  thou  undishonoured.  —  So  Hanmer.  The 
original  has  “  I  live  distain' d,"  which  gives  just  the  opposite  of  the 
sense  required.  It  seems  needful  to  remark,  here,  that  the  form  of 
the  letter  v  was  very  often  used  for  u  in  the  Poet’s  time.  Dyce  notes 
that  “  the  manuscript  had  vnstain'd,  and  the  original  compositor  mis¬ 
took  the  initial  v  for  d."  He  adds,  “The  proneness  of  printers  to 
blunder  in  words  beginning  with  v  is  very  remarkable.”  And  he 
quotes  from  various  old  plays,  showing  how  daunt  got  misprinted  for 
vaunt,  times  for  vines,  sin  for  vein,  due  for  vice,  bones  for  vaines,  that 
is,  veins ,  and  oil  for  veil. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


153 


P.  101.  To  me  she  speaks ;  she  means  me  for  her  theme.  —  So  Col¬ 
lier’s  second  folio,  followed  by  Singer ;  the  old  copies,  “  she  moves  me 
for  her  theme.” 

P.  101.  Until  I  know  this  sure  uncertainty , 

I'll  entertain  the  offer’d  fallacy.  —  So  Capell.  The  original  has 
“  the  free'd  fallacy,”  which  is  both  nonsensical  and  unmetrical.  Offer'd 
suits  the  context  well,  and  implies  an  easier  misprint  than  proffer'd the 
reading  of  Collier’s  second  folio.  Mr.  White  prints  “the  forcbd  fal¬ 
lacy,”  which  seems  to  me  a  rather  forced  reading. 

P.  10 1.  We  talk  with  none  but  goblins,  elves,  and  sprites.  —  The 
original  here  reads  “  We  talke  with  Goblins,  Owles,  and  Sprights”;  the 
second  folio,  “  We  talke  with  Goblins,  Owles,  and  Elves  Sprights.”  I 
do  not  well  see  what  owls  should  have  to  do  in  such  company.  Theo¬ 
bald,  seeing  the  unfitness  of  that  word,  printed  “  with  goblins,  ouphs , 
and  elvish  sprites.”  Lettsom,  who  seems  to  have  thought  the  same  of 
owls,  proposed,  “  We  talk  with  ghosts  and  goblins,  elves  and  sprites.” 
Finally,  Dyce,  to  complete  the  verse,  which  clearly  ought  not  to  be  left 
incomplete,  inserted  none  but,  in  consequence  of  what  Antipholus  of 
Syracuse  says  in  iii.  1,  “There’s  none  but  witches  do  inhabit  here.’ 
Thus  the  reading  in  the  text  has  grown  into  being. 

P.  101.  Dromio ,  thou  drone,  thou  snail,  thou  slug,  thou  sot ! —  In¬ 
stead  of  drone ,  the  original  repeats  Dromio.  Corrected  by  Theobald. 

Act  hi.,  Scene  i. 

P.  104.  Thou  wouldst  have  changed  thy  face  for  a  name,  or  thy 
name  for  a  face. —  So  Collier’s  second  folio  and  White.  The  old 
copies  have  “  or  thy  name  for  an  ass." 

P.  105.  You'll  let  us  in,  I  know.  —  Instead  of  know,  the  original 
reads  hope ;  which  has  led  some  editors  to  conjecture  that  a  line  must 
have  dropped  out  in  the  printing.  As  a  word  rhyming  with  hope  seemed 
to  be  wanting,  the  missing  line  was  thought  to  have  ended  with  rope. 
The  present  reading  was  proposed  to  me  by  Mr.  Joseph  Crosby.  It 
explains  the  pun  intended  by  no,  in  the  next  line. 

P.  106.  Your  cake  is  warm  within  ;  you  stand  here  in  the  cold.  — 
So  Capell,  with  manifest  propriety.  The  original  reads  “  Your  cake 


154 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


here  is  warme  within  ”  ;  here  having  been  repeated  by  mistake  from 
the  latter  half  of  the  line. 

P.  108.  Enter,  from  the  House,  Luciana  and  Antipholus  of  Syra¬ 
cuse. —  Here  modem  editions  generally  begin  a  new  scene,  though 
there  is,  confessedly,  no  change  of  place.  The  same  thing  occurs 
elsewhere. 

P.  108.  Shall  love,  in  building,  grow  so  ruinous?  —  The  original 
has  buildings  and  ruinate.  The  first  is  against  the  reason  of  the  pas¬ 
sage,  the  second  against  the  rhyme.  As  the  whole  speech  is  in  alter¬ 
nate  rhyme,  ruinate  has  been  rightly  changed  to  ruinous,  for  an  ending 
consonous  with  Antipholus  in  the  second  line  before.  The  corrections 
are  Theobald’s. 

P.  109.  Alas,  poor  women!  make  us  but  believe.  —  The  original 
has  “  make  us  not  believe.”  Plardly  worth  notice. 

P.  I IO.  Spread  o'er  the  silver  waves  thy  golden  hairs. 

And  as  a  bed  I'll  take  them,  and  there  lie.  —  The  first  folio  has 
bud  instead  of  bed,  which  is  the  reading  of  the  second,  while  both  have 
thee  instead  of  them.  The  latter  correction,  proposed  by  Edwards,  is 
adopted  by  Singer  and  Dyce.  Staunton  reads,  “  And  as  a  bride  I’ll 
take  thee.” 

P.  1 10.  Let  Love  be  light,  being  drowned  if  she  sink.  — The  original 
transposes  be  and  being,  which  makes  the  line  unintelligible  to  me. 
The  reading  in  the  text  was  proposed  by  Dr.  Badham  in  Cambridge 
Essays,  1856. 

P.  ill.  Call  thyself  sister,  sweet,  for  L  aim  thee.  —  The  original 
reads  “  I  am  thee.”  Corrected  by  Capell.  See  foot-note  29. 

P.  1 1 3.  Ln  her  forehead  ;  arm'd  and  reverted,  making  war  against 
her  hair.  —  So  all  the  editions  that  I  have  consulted,  except  White’s, 
which  changes  reverted  to  rei<olted.  I  am  apt  to  think  the  change  is 
right ;  for  I  can  see  the  sense  and  application  of  revolted  in  reference 
to  France  and  her  heir ,  though  not  in  reference  to  the  woman  and 
her  hair ;  while  reverted  is  unintelligible  to  me  in  either  regard. 
Perhaps  inverted  might  give  a  sense  that  would  fit  both  sides  of  the 
quibble.  See  foot-note  34. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


155 


P.  1 14.  I  think,  if  my  breast  had  not  been  made  of  flint,  and  my 
heart  of  steel,  &c. —  The  old  copies  have  faith  instead  of  flint,  which 
is  Hanmer’s  reading,  and  which  Dyce  considers  “  a  highly  probable 
alteration.”  The  old  reading  has  been  explained  as  alluding  to  the 
popular  belief  that  a  strong  faith  was  a  protection  against  witchcraft. 
But  that  explanation  seems  rather  far-fetched :  besides,  it  does  not 
help  the  discord  between  faith  and  steel. 

Act  iv.,  Scene  i. 

P.  1 1 7.  You  promised  your  presence  and  the  chain.  —  So  Dyce. 
The  original  has  “  /  promised,”  &c.  The  correction  was  suggested  by 
what  the  same  person  says  a  little  further  on,  “  Your  breach  of 
promise  to  the  Porpentine.” 

P.  1 18.  Either  send  the  chain,  or  send  by  me  some  token.  —  So 
Heath  and  Collier’s  second  folio  ;  the  old  copies,  “  send  me  by  some 
token.” 

P.  1 19.  And  then  she  bears  away.  —  So  Capell.  The  original, 
“And  then  sir  she  bears  away”;  sir  being  palpably  either  a  misprint 
or  an  interpolation. 

P.  1 19.  You  sent  me,  sir ,for  a  rope's-end  as  soon.  —  Here  the  orig¬ 
inal  has  the  converse  of  that  remarked  in  the  preceding  note :  it  omits 
sir ,  which  was  supplied  by  Steevens. 

Act  iv.,  Scene  2. 

P.  1 20.  Mightest  thou  perceive  assuredly  in  his  eye 

That  he  did  plead  in  earnest,  yea  or  no?  —  So  Heath.  The  old 
text  has  atisterely  instead  of  assuredly.  Heath  justly  remarks  that 
“  the  word  austerly  hath  no  meaning  suited  to  this  place.” 

P.  1 20.  Look'd  he  or  red  or  pale,  or  sad  or  merry.  —  So  Walker  and 
Collier’s  second  folio  ;  the  original  has  merrily  instead  of  merry. 
Merrily  overfills  the  verse. 

P.  122.  A  fiend,  a  fury,  pitiless  and  rough.  —  So  Theobald  and  Col¬ 
lier’s  second  folio,  followed  by  Singer  and  Dyce.  Instead  of  fury ,  the 
old  copies  have  Fairie  ;  a  palpable  error. 

P.  122.  But  he’s  in  a  suit  of  buff  which  'rested  him. —  Instead  of 
he's ,  the  original  has  simply  is,  which  is  commonly  retained  on  the 
ground  that  the  Poet  sometimes  leaves  the  pronouns  understood.  But 
he  seems  specially  needed  here  as  the  antecedent  of  which. 


156 


THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


P.  123.  If  Time  be  in  debt  and  theft. — The  old  copies  read  “If  I 
be  in  debt,”  &c.  Some  editors,  following  Malone,  read  “  If  he  be  in 
debt,”  he  referring  to  Time  in  the  line  before.  Rowe  printed  Time , 
which  Dyce  adopts,  noting,  withal,  that  “  the  word  was  probably  writ¬ 
ten  here  contractedly,  T,  which  the  compositor  might  easily  mistake 
for  I. 

Act  iv.,  Scene  3. 

P.  124.  The  man,  sir,  that,  when  gentlemen  are  tired,  gives  them  a 
bob,  and  ' rests  them.  —  So  Hanmer,  followed  by  Dyce.  Instead  of 
bob,  the  original  has  sob ,  which  is  commonly  changed  to  fob.  Staunton 
prints  sop,  and  White  stop.  See  foot-note  3. 

P.  126.  If  you  do,  expect  spoon-meat ;  so  bespeak  a  long  spoon.  —  The 
original  has  “or  bespeak  a  long  spoon.”  Capell  changed  or  to  so, 
and  is  followed  by  Dyce.  White  prints  “expect  spoon-meat,  and 
bespeak.” 

P.  126.  Avoid  thee,  fiend! — The  original  reads  “Avoid  then 
fiend.”  Then  is  commonly  changed  to  thou;  but,  as  Dyce  remarks, 
the  reading  in  the  text  was  “  the  more  usual  expression  ”  in  such  cases. 

Act  iv.,  Scene  4. 

P.  128.  Off.  I'll  serve  you,  sir,  five  hundred  at  the  rate.  — The  orig¬ 
inal  assigns  this  speech  to  Dromio  of  Ephesus,  in  whose  mouth  it  is 
quite  unintelligible.  The  Cambridge  Editors  proposed  to  transfer  it  to 
the  Officer. 

P.  129.  Or  rather,  to  prophesy  like  the  parrot,  &c. — The  original 
reads  “or  rather  the  prophesie  like  the  parrot.”  From  this  I  can  gather 
no  meaning  at  all.  The  reading  in  the  text  is  Dyce’s.  See  foot-note  4. 

P.  130.  I  dined  at  home  ! —  Thou  villain,  what  say'st  thou? —  I, 
at  the  beginning  of  this  speech,  and  required  by  the  metre,  was  inserted 
by  Capell.  I  am  surprised  that  Singer  and  White  reject  it. 

P.  131.  God  and  the  rope-maker  now  bear  me  witness!  —  So  Col¬ 
lier’s  second  folio,  followed  by  Dyce.  The  original  lacks  now,  which 
Pope  supplied  the  place  of  with  do. 

Act  v.,  Scene  i. 

P.  134.  Good  sir,  draw  near  with  me.  I'll  speak  to  him.  —  The  old 
copies  read  “draw  near  to  me.”  The  change  is  from  Collier’s  second 
folio,  and  seems  fairly  needful  to  the  sense. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


157 


P.  135.  This  week  he  hath  been  heavy,  sour ,  sad, 

And  too  much  different  from  the  man  he  was.  —  The  first  folio 
reads  “  And  much  different,”  &c.,  which  leaves  an  incredible  gap  in 
the  verse.  The  hole  was  stopped  in  the  second  folio  by  repeating 
much  ;  but  I  much  prefer  the  reading  in  the  text,  which  was  proposed 
by  Mr.  Swynfen  Jervis,  and  is  supported  by  a  line  in  Richard  II.,  ii. 
2 :  “  Madam,  your  Majesty  is  too  much  sad.” 

P.  1 36.  Sweet  recreation  bar  Ad,  what  doth  ensue 

But  moody,  moping,  and  dull  melancholy  ?  —  The  original  lacks 
moping,  —  another  incredible  gap  in  the  verse.  Hanmer  supplied  the 
word,  which  has  also  been  proposed  by  Heath  and  Walker. 

P.  138.  The  place  of  death  and  sorry  execution.  —  The  original  has 
“The  place  of  depth,”  which  some  would  still  retain!  The  correction 
was  made  by  Rowe,  and  is  also  found  in  Collier’s  second  folio. 

P.  139.  Anon,  I  wot  not  by  what  strange  escape. 

He  broke  from  those  that  had  the  guard  of  him  ; 

And  then  his  mad  attendant  and  himself, 

Each  one  with  ireful  passion,  with  drawn  swords, 

Met  us  again,  &c.  —  In  the  first  of  these  lines,  the  original  has 
“  what  strong  escape,”  and  in  the  third,  “And  with  his  mad  attendant.” 
Strange  is  found  in  Collier’s  second  folio,  and  was  also  proposed  by 
Walker,  who  points  out  other  instances  of  that  word  thus  misprinted. 
The  correction  of  with  to  then  is  Ritson’s,  which  I  prefer  to  Capell’s 
here.  I  cannot  but  wonder  that  Singer,  White,  and  Dyce  should  still 
retain  with  ;  for,  to  speak  of  a  man  as  breaking  away  from  guard,  and 
going  with  himself  to  do  something,  seems  not  far  from  absurd. 
Doubtless  with  crept  in  there  by  repetition  from  the  next  line. 

P.  140.  He  cries  for  you,  and  vows,  if  he  can  take  you, 

To  scotch  your  face,  and  to  disfigure  you.  — The  old  copies  read 
“  To  scorch  your  face.”  Warburton  made  the  correction,  which,  how¬ 
ever,  is  rejected  by  many,  Singer  and  White  among  them.  It  is 
remarkable  that  the  old  copies  have  the  same  misprint  in  Macbeth,  iii. 
2 :  “  We  have  scorch'd  the  snake,  not  kill’d  it.” 

P.  142.  They  fell  upon  vie,  bound  me,  bore  me  thence, 

And  in  a  dark  and  dankish  vault  at  home 

They  left  me.  —  So  Walker  and  Collier’s  second  folio,  followed 
by  Dyce.  The  original,  “  There  left  me.” 


158  THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

P.  143.  I  never  saw  the  chain.  So  help  me  Heaven, 

As  this  is  false  you  burden  me  withal.  — The  original  reads  “the 
Chaine,  so  helpe  me  heaven:  And  this  is  false,”  &c.  The  correction 
is  Dyce’s,  who  still  thinks  it  “  absolutely  necessary,  though  Mr.  Grant 
White  has  pronounced  it  ‘  quite  needless.’  ”  And  he  justly  quotes 
from  a  preceding  speech  of  Adriana’s :  “  So  befall  my  soul,  as  this  is 
false  he  burdens  me  withal.” 

P.  145.  /Ege.  If  I  dream  not,  thou  art  ALmilia. —  The  original 
misplaces  this  speech  of  Higeon  and  Himilia’s  reply  to  it,  inserting 
them  between  the  last  two  lines  of  the  Duke’s  following  speech.  The 
transposition  was  made  by  Capell,  and  is  generally  accepted. 

P.  146.  Besides  her  urging  of  the  wreck  at  sea.  —  The  old  copies 
read  “  urging  of  her  wreck.”  Some  have  supposed  her  to  be  a  mis¬ 
print  for  his.  Probably  the  word  got  repeated  by  mistake.  The 
correction  is  Walker’s. 

P.  147.  And  thereupon  these  errors  all  arose. — The  old  copies 
have  “  errors  are  arose.”  Corrected  by  Rowe.  Staunton  prints 
“  these  Errors  rare  arose.” 

P.  147.  Twenty-five  years  have  I  but  gone  in  travail 
Of  you,  my  sons  ;  and,  till  this  present  hour, 

My  heavy  burden  ne’er  delivered.  —  Here,  in  the  first  line,  the 
original  has  “  Thirtie  three  yeares.”  Twenty-five  is  known  to  be  right, 
because  Higeon  has  said  that  he  had  parted  from  his  son  seven  years 
before,  the  latter  being  then  eighteen.  The  correction  was  made  by 
Theobald.  —  In  the  third  line,  also,  the  original  reads  “  burthen  are 
delivered.”  We  owe  the  happy  emendation  to  Dyce. 

P.  147.  And  you  the  calendars  of  their  nativity , 

Go  to  a  gossips'  feast,  and  joy  with  me  ; 

After  so  long  grief,  such  felicity !  —  Here  the  original  has,  in  the 
second  line,  “  and^ic  with  me.”  The  apt  correction,  joy,  was  proposed 
by  Heath,  and  is  adopted  by  Singer,  White,  and  Dyce.  —  In  the  third 
line,  again,  the  original  has  “  such  nativity ,”  thus  repeating  the  word 
from  the  end  of  the  first.  The  correction  is  Hanmer’s.  Walker 
notes  upon  the  passage  thus :  “For  the  second  nativity ,  read,  not  as 
is  suggested  in  the  Variorum  edition ,  festivity,  but  felicity .” 

P.  148.  Master ,  shall  I  go  fetch  your  stuff  fro?n  ship-board ?  —  So 
Walker.  The  old  copies  lack  go. 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA 


THE 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


FIRST  printed  in  the  folio  of  1623.  Also  mentioned  by 
Meres,  in  his  Palladis  Tamia,  1598.  Beyond  this,  we  have 
no  external  indication  as  to  the  date  of  composition ;  though  the 
internal  evidence,  of  style,  diction,  dramatic  structure,  and  de¬ 
lineation  of  character,  is  conclusive  of  its  having  been  among  the 
earliest-written  of  Shakespeare’s  comedies. 

No  note  has  been  discovered  of  the  performance  of  this  play 
during  the  author’s  life.  Doubtless  it  was  put  upon  the  stage, 
for  Shakespeare  had  no  thought  of  writing  dramas  merely  for  the 
closet;  but,  if  it  had  been  acted  as  often  as  his  other  plays,  we 
should  most  likely  have  some  record  of  the  performance,  as  we 
have  in  the  case  of  so  many  others.  Notwithstanding  its  superi¬ 
ority  to  most  of  the  plays  then  in  use  from  other  hands,  its  com¬ 
parative  excess  of  the  rhetorical  over  the  dramatic  elements  may 
have  made  it  less  popular  in  that  most  action-loving  age  than 
many  far  below  it  in  all  other  respects. 

No  novel  or  romance  has  been  found,  to  which  the  Poet  could 
have  been  much  indebted  for  the  plot  or  matter  of  this  play.  In 
the  part  of  Julia  and  her  maid  Lucetta  there  are  indeed  some 
points  of  resemblance  to  the  Diana  of  George  Montemayor,  a 
Spanish  romance  at  that  time  very  popular  in  England,  and  of 
which  an  English  translation  by  Bartholomew  Yonge  was  published 
in  1598.  The  Diana  is  one  of  the  books  spared  from  the  bonfire 
of  Don  Quixote’s  library,  because,  in  the  words  of  the  Priest  who 
superintends  the  burning,  “They  do  not  deserve  to  be  burnt 
like  the  rest,  for  they  cannot  do  the  mischief  that  those  of  chiv¬ 
alry  have  done :  they  are  works  of  genius  and  fancy,  and  do 


i59 


i6o 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


nobody  any  hurt.”  The  part  from  which  Shakespeare  is  thought 
to  have  borrowed  is  the  story  of  Felismena,  the  heroine  : 

“  My  father  having  early  followed  my  mother  to  the  tomb,  I 
was  left  an  orphan.  Henceforth  I  resided  with  a  distant  relative  ; 
and,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  fell  in  love  with  Don  Felix,  a  young 
nobleman  of  the  province  where  I  lived.  The  object  of  my  affec¬ 
tions  felt  a  reciprocal  passion  ;  but  his  father,  having  learned  the 
attachment  between  us,  sent  his  son  to  Court  with  a  view  to  pre¬ 
vent  our  union.  Soon  after  his  departure,  I  followed  him  in  the 
disguise  of  a  page,  and  on  the  night  of  my  arrival  discovered,  bj 
a  serenade  I  heard  him  give,  that  he  had  disposed  of  his  affec¬ 
tions.  Not  being  recognized,  I  was  taken  into  his  service,  and 
engaged  to  conduct  the  correspondence  with  the  mistress  who 
had  supplanted  me.” 

Though  Yonge’s  version  of  the  Diana  was  not  published  till 
1598,  the  story  was  generally  well  known  before  that  time  ;  parts 
of  it  were  translated  in  Sidney’s  Arcadia ,  which  came  out  in 
1590 ;  and  there  is  reason  to  think  that  the  History  of  Felix  and 
Philiomena ,  which  was  acted  at  Court  as  far  back  as  1582,  was  a 
play  partly  founded  on  the  story  of  Felix  and  Felismena.  So 
that,  Shakespeare  being  admitted  to  have  followed  the  tale  in 
question,  he  might  well  enough  have  been  familiar  with  it  long 
before  Yonge’s  translation  appeared.  But,  indeed,  such  and 
similar  incidents  were  the  common  staple  of  romances  in  that  age. 
And  the  same  may  be  said  touching  the  matter  of  Valentine’s 
becoming  captain  of  the  outlaws ;  for  which  the  Poet  has  been 
written  down  as  indebted  to  Sidney’s  Arcadia. 


THE 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Duke  of  Milan,  Father  to  Silvia. 

\  alentine,  )  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 
Proteus,  i 

Antonio,  Father  to  Proteus. 
Thurio,  Rival  to  Valentine. 
Eglamour,  Agent  for  Silvia. 

Speed,  Servant  to  Valentine. 
Launce,  Servant  to  Proteus. 


Panthino,  Servant  to  Antonio, 
Host  to  Julia  in  Milan. 

Outlaws. 

Silvia,  beloved  by  Valentine. 
Julia,  a  Lady  of  Verona. 
Lucetta,  her  Waiting-woman. 


Servants,  Musicians. 

SCENE. — In  Verona;  in  Milan;  and  in  a  forest  near  Milan. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  —  Verona.  An  open  Place  in  the  City. 

Enter  Valentine  and  Proteus. 

Val.  Cease  to  persuade,  my  loving  Proteus  : 
Home-keeping  youth  have  ever  homely  wits.1 
Were’t  not  affection  chains  thy  tender  days 
To  the  sweet  glances  of  thy  honour’d  love, 

I  rather  would  entreat  thy  company 
To  see  the  wonders  of  the  world  abroad, 

Than,  living  dully  sluggardized  at  home, 

1  Milton  has  a  similar  play  upon  words  in  his  Comus  :  “  It  is  for  homely 
features  to  keep  home ;  they  had  their  name  thence.” 

161 


;  '  m 

1 62  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  ACT  I 

Wear  out  thy  youth  with  shapeless  idleness.9 
But,  since  thou  lovest,  love  still,  and  thrive  therein, 

Even  as  I  would,  when  I  to  love  begin. 

Pro.  Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?  Sweet  Valentine,  adieu  ! 

Think  on  thy  Proteus,  when  thou  haply  see’st 
Some  rare  note-worthy  object  in  thy  travel : 

Wish  me  partaker  in  thy  happiness, 

When  thou  dost  meet  good  hap ;  and  in  thy  danger, 

If  ever  danger  do  environ  thee, 

Commend  thy  grievance  to  my  holy  prayers, 

For  I  will  be  thy  beadsman,2 3  Valentine. 

Val.  And  on  a  love-book  pray  for  my  success  ? 

Pro.  Upon  some  book  I  love  I’ll  pray  for  thee. 

Val.  That’s  on  some  shallow  story  of  deep  love  ; 

How  young  Leander  cross’d  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.  That’s  a  deep  story  of  a  deeper  love  ; 

For  he  was  more  than  over  shoes  in  love. 

Val.  ’Tis  true  ;  and  you  are  over  boots  in  love, 

And  yet  you  never  swam  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.  Over  the  boots  !  nay,  give  me  not  the  boots.4 
Val.  No, 

I  will  not,  for  it  boots  not. 

Pro.  What  ? 

2  Shapeless  in  the  active  sense  of  unshaping ;  as  idleness  does  nothing 
towards  shaping  the  mind  and  character.  So  the  Poet  has  helpless  repeat¬ 
edly  for  7inhelping  or  affording  no  help. 

3  A  beadsman  is  one  bound  or  pledged  to  pray  for  another’s  welfare. 
Bead,  in  fact,  is  Anglo-Saxon  for  prayer,  and  so  for  the  small  wooden  balls 
which  are  strung  together  in  what  is  called  a  rosary,  and  one  of  which  is 
dropped  down  the  string  as  often  as  a  prayer  is  said.  Hence  the  name,  if 
not  the  thing,  “a  string  of  beads.”  Not  the  only  instance  of  piety  turned  to 
account  as  an  ornament  or  a  beautifier. 

4  An  old  proverbial  phrase,  meaning  “  Don’t  make  me  a  laughing-stock.” 
The  French  have  a  phrase,  Bailler  foin  en  come ;  which  Cotgrave  inter¬ 
prets,  "To  give  one  the  boots;  to  sell  him  a  bargain”;  or,  as  we  say,  “ to 
sell  him.” 


SCENE  I.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


163 


Val.  To  be 

In  love,  where  scorn  is  bought  with  groans ;  coy  looks 
With  heart-sore  sighs  ;  one  fading  moment’s  mirth 
With  twenty  watchful,  weary,  tedious  nights  : 

If  haply  won,  perhaps  a  hapless  gain ; 

If  lost,  why,  then  a  grievous  labour  won ; 

However,5  but  a  folly  bought  with  wit, 

Or  else  a  wit  by  folly  vanquished. 

Pro.  So,  by  your  circumstance,6  you  call  me  fool. 

Val.  So,  by  your  circumstance,  I  fear  you’ll  prove. 

Pro.  ’Tis  love  you  cavil  at :  I  am  not  Love. 

Val.  Love  is  your  master,  for  he  masters  you  : 

And  he  that  is  so  yoked  by  a  fool, 

Methinks,  should  not  be  chronicled  for  wise. 

Pro.  Yet  writers  say,  as  in  the  sweetest  bud 
The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  love 
Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all. 

Val.  And  writers  say,  as  the  most  forward  bud 
Is  eaten  by  the  canker  ere  it  blow, 

Even  so  by  love  the  young  and  tender  wit 
Is  turn’d  to  folly ;  blasting  in  the  bud, 

Losing  his  verdure  even  in  the  prime, 

And  all  the  fair  effects  of  future  hopes. 

But  wherefore  waste  I  time  to  counsel  thee, 

0 

That  art  a  votary  to  fond  desire  ? 

Once  more  adieu  !  my  father  at  the  road 
Expects  my  coming,  there  to  see  me  shipp’d. 

Pro.  And  thither  will  I  bring  thee,  Valentine. 

Val.  Sweet  Proteus,  no  ;  now  let  us  take  our  leave. 

At  Milan  let  me  hear  from  thee  by  letters 

5  However  here  has  the  force  of  at  all  events  or  in  either  case. 

6  The  Poet  sometimes  uses  circumstance  in  the  sense  of  circwnlocution 
or  circumstantial  inference.  In  the  next  line  it  means  conduct.  This  play 
abounds  in  such  quirks  of  thought. 


164  the  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  I. 


Of  thy  success  in  love,  and  what  news  else 
Betideth  here  in  absence  of  thy  friend  ; 

And  I  likewise  will  visit  thee  with  mine. 

Pro.  All  happiness  bechance  to  thee  in  Milan  ! 

Val.  As  much  to  you  at  home  !  and  so,  farewell,  [j Exit. 

Pro.  He  after  honour  hunts,  I  after  love  : 

He  leaves  his  friends  to  dignify  them  more ; 

I  leave  myself,  my  friends,  and  all,  for  love.  — 

Thou,  Julia,  thou  hast  metamorphosed  me  ; 

Made  me  neglect  my  studies,  lose  my  time, 

War  with  good  counsel,  set  the  world  at  nought, 

Make  wit  with  musing  weak,  heart  sick  with  thought. 

Enter  Speed. 

Speed.  Sir  Proteus,  save  you  !  Saw  you  my  master? 

Pro.  But  now  he  parted  hence,  t’  embark  for  Milan. 
Speed.  Twenty  to  one,  then,  he  is  shipp’d  already, 

And  I  have  play’d  the  sheep 7  in  losing  him. 

Pro.  Indeed,  a  sheep  doth  very  often  stray, 

An  if  the  shepherd  be  awhile  away. 

Speed.  You  conclude  that  my  master  is  a  shepherd,  then, 
and  I  a  sheep  ? 

Pro.  I  do. 

Speed.  Why,  then  my  horns  are  his  horns,  whether  I  wake 
or  sleep. 

Pro.  A  silly  answer,  and  fitting  well  a  sheep. 

Speed.  This  proves  me  still  a  sheep. 

Pro.  True  ;  and  thy  master  a  shepherd. 

Speed.  Nay,  that  I  can  deny  by  a  circumstance. 

Pro.  It  shall  go  hard  but  I’ll  prove  it  by  another.8 

7  It  appears  from  this  that  ship  and  sheep  were  pronounced  alike. 

8  “  I  will  try  very  hard  rather  than  fail  to  prove  it  by  another.”  “  It  shall 
go  hard  but  ”  is  an  old  phrase  repeatedly  used  thus  by  Shakespeare.  So  in 
The  Merchant,  iii.  I :  “  The  villainy  you  teach  me  I  will  execute ;  and  it  shall 
go  hard  but  I  will  better  the  instruction  ”  ;  evidently  meaning,  “  I  will  work 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


165 


Speed.  The  shepherd  seeks  the  sheep,  and  not  the  sheep 
the  shepherd ;  but  I  seek  my  master,  and  my  master  seeks 
not  me  :  therefore  I  am  no  sheep. 

Pro.  The  sheep  for  fodder  follow  the  shepherd,  the  shep¬ 
herd  for  food  follows  not  the  sheep  ;  thou  for  wages  followest 
thy  master,  thy  master  for  wages  follows  not  thee  :  therefore 
thou  art  a  sheep. 

Speed.  Such  another  proof  will  make  me  cry  baa. 

Pro.  But,  dost  thou  hear?  gavest  thou  my  letter  to  Julia? 

Speed.  Ay,  sir :  I,  a  lost  mutton,  gave  your  letter  to  her, 
a  laced  mutton ;  and  she,  a  laced  mutton,9  gave  me,  a  lost 
mutton,  nothing  for  my  labour. 

Pro.  Here’s  too  small  a  pasture  for  such  store  of  muttons. 

Speed.  If  the  ground  be  overcharged,  you  were  best  stick 
her. 

Pro.  Nay,  in  that  you  are  astray ;  ’twere  best  pound  you. 

Speed.  Nay,  sir,  less  than  a  pound  shall  serve  me  for  car¬ 
rying  your  letter. 

Pro.  You  mistake  ;  I  mean  the  pound,  —  a  pinfold. 

Speed.  From  a  pound  to  a  pin  ?  fold  it  over  and  over, 

’Tis  threefold  too  little  for  carrying  a  letter  to  your  lover. 

Pro.  But  what  said  she  ? 

Speed.  [. Nodding .]  Ay. 

Pro.  Nod,  Ay  ?  —  why,  that’s  noddy.10 

mighty  hard  rather  than  fail  to  surpass  my  teachers.”  And  in  Hamlet ,  iii. 
4 :  "It  shall  go  hard  but  I  will  delve  one  yard  below  their  mines,  and  blow 
them  at  the  Moon.” 

9  Laced  mutton  was  a  cant  term  for  a  courtezan.  So  in  Delany’s  Thomas 
of  Reading :  “  No  meat  pleased  him  so  wbll  as  mutton ,  such  as  was  laced 
in  a  red  petticoat.”  As  courtesans  are  fond  of  finery,  Dyce  thinks  that 
“Speed  applies  the  term  to  Julia  in  the  much  less  offensive  sense  of — a 
richly-attired  piece  of  woman's  flesh!' 

10  The  poor  quibble  is  more  apparent  in  the  original  where,  according  to 
the  mode  of  that  time,  the  affirmative  particle  ay  is  printed  I.  Noddy  was  a 
game  at  cards ;  applied  to  a  person,  the  word  meant  fool;  Noddy  being 
the  name  of  what  is  commonly  called  the  Jack. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  I. 


1 66 


Speed.  You  mistook,  sir ;  I  say,  she  did  nod :  and  you 
ask  me  if  she  did  nod ;  and  I  say,  Ay. 

Pro.  And  that  set  together  is  —  noddy. 

Speed.  Now  you  have  taken  the  pains  to  set  it  together, 
take  it  for  your  pains. 

Pro.  No,  no  ;  you  shall  have  it  for  bearing  the  letter. 

Speed.  Well,  I  perceive  I  must  be  fain  to  bear  with  you. 

Pro.  Why,  sir,  how  do  you  bear  with  me  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  the  letter  very  orderly ;  having  nothing 
but  the  word  noddy  for  my  pains. 

Pro.  Beshrew  me,  but  you  have  a  quick  wit. 

Speed.  And  yet  it  cannot  overtake  your  slow  purse. 

Pro.  Come,  come,  open  the  matter  in  brief ;  what  said 
she? 

Speed.  Open  your  purse,  that  the  money  and  the  matter 
may  be  both  at  once  deliver’d. 

Pro.  Well,  sir,  here  is  for  your  pains.  [  Giving  him  money. ~\ 
What  said  she  ? 

Speed.  Truly,  sir,  I  think  you’ll  hardly  win  her. 

Pro.  Why,  couldst  thou  perceive  so  much  from  her? 

Speed.  Sir,  I  could  perceive  nothing  at  all  from  her ;  no, 
not  so  much  as  a  ducat  for  delivering  your  letter  :  and,  being 
so  hard  to  me  that  brought  your  mind,  I  fear  she’ll  prove  as 
hard  to  you  in  telling  your  mind.11  Give  her  no  token  but 
stones ;  for  she’s  as  hard  as  steel. 

Pro.  What,  said  she  nothing? 

Speed.  No,  not  so  much  as  Take  this  for  thy  pains.  To 
testify  your  bounty,  I  thank  you,  you  have  testern’d  me ; 12 

11  The  meaning  appears  to  be,  “  Since  she  has  been  so  hard  to  me,  the 
bearer  of  your  mind,  I  fear  she  will  be  equally  hard  to  you,  whose  mind  I 
bore,  when  you  address  her  in  person."  The  antithesis,  as  Malone  observes, 
is  between  brought  and  telling. 

12  “You  have  given  me  a  testern."  Testerti  or  tester  was  the  name 
of  a  coin  of  sixpence  value,  so  called  from  having  a  teste,  head,  stamped 
on  it. 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  1 67 

in  requital  whereof,  henceforth  carry  your  letters  yourself : 
and  so,  sir,  I’ll  commend  you  to  my  master. 

Pro.  Go,  go,  be  gone,  to  save  your  ship  from  wreck, 
Which  cannot  perish  having  thee  aboard, 

Being  destined  to  a  drier  death  on  shore.  —  \_Exit  Speed. 
I  must  go  send  some  better  messenger : 

I  fear  my  Julia  would  not  deign  my  lines, 

Receiving  them  from  such  a  worthless  post.  [Exit ' 


Scene  II.  —  The  Same.  The  Garden  of  Julia’s  House. 

Enter  Julia  and  Lucetta. 

Jul.  But  say,  Lucetta,  now  we  are  alone, 

Wouldst  thou,  then,  counsel  me  to  fall  in  love  ? 

Luc.  Ay,  madam  ;  so  you  stumble  not  unheedfully. 

Jul.  Of  all  the  fair  resort  of  gentlemen 
That  every  day  with  parle  1  encounter  me, 

In  thy  opinion  which  is  worthiest  love  ? 

Luc.  Please  you  repeat  their  names,  I’ll  show  my  mind 
According  to  my  shallow-simple  skill. 

Jul.  What  think’ st  thou  of  the  fair  Sir  Eglamour  ? 

Luc.  As  of  a  knight  well-spoken,  neat,  and  fine  ; 

But,  were  I  you,  he  never  should  be  mine. 

Jul.  What  think ’st  thou  of  the  rich  Mercatio  ? 

Luc.  Well  of  his  wealth ;  but,  of  himself,  so-so. 

Jul.  What  think’st  thou  of  the  gentle  Proteus  ? 

Luc.  Lord,  Lord  !  to  see  what  folly  reigns  in  us  ! 

Jul.  How  now  !  what  means  this  passion  at  his  name  ? 

Luc.  Pardon,  dear  madam  :  ’tis  a  passing  shame 
That  I,  unworthy  body  as  I  am, 

1  Parle  is  parley,  that  is,  talk.  The  Poet  has  it  repeatedly ;  as  in  Hamlet , 
i.  1 :  “  So  frowned  he  once,  when,  in  an  angry  parle ,  he  smote  the  sledded 
Polacks,”  &c. 


1 68  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  ACT  I. 

Should  censure  2  thus  on  lovely  gentlemen. 

Jill.  Why  not  on  Proteus,  as  of  all  the  rest? 

Luc.  Then  thus,  —  of  many  good  I  think  him  best. 

Jill.  Your  reason? 

Luc.  I  have  no  other  but  a  woman’s  reason  : 

I  think  him  so,  because  I  think  him  so. 

Jul.  And  wouldst  thou  have  me  cast  my  love  on  him? 
Luc.  Ay,  if  you  thought  your  love  not  cast  away. 

Jul.  Why,  he,  of  all  the  rest,  hath  never  moved  me. 

Luc.  Yet  he,  of  all  the  rest,  I  think,  best  loves  ye. 

Jul.  His  little  speaking  shows  his  love  but  small. 

Luc.  Fire  3  that’s  closest  kept  burns  most  of  all. 

Jul.  They  do  not  love  that  do  not  show  their  love. 

Luc.  O,  they  love  least  that  let  men  know  their  love. 

Jul.  I  would  I  knew  his  mind. 

Luc.  Peruse  this  paper,  madam.  [  Gives  a  letter. 

Jul.  \_Reads.~\  To  Julia.  —  Say,  from  whom? 

Luc.  That  the  contents  will  show. 

Jul.  Say,  say,  who  gave  it  thee  ? 

Luc.  Sir  Valentine’s  page ;  and  sent,  I  think,  from  Pro¬ 
teus. 

He  would  have  given  it  you  ;  but  I,  being  in  the  way, 

Did  in  your  name  receive  it :  pardon  the  fault,  I  pray. 

Jul.  Now,  by  my  modesty,  a  goodly  broker  !4 
Dare  you  presume  to  harbour  wanton  lines  ? 

To  whisper  and  conspire  against  my  youth? 

Now,  trust  me,  ’tis  an  office  of  great  worth ; 

2  Censure  was  continually  used  thus  in  the  sense  of  judging  or  passing 
judgtnent.  —  The  next  line  gives  an  instance  of  on  and  caused  interchange¬ 
ably.  The  Poet  has  many  such. 

3  Fire  is  here  a  dissyllable.  This  and  various  other  words,  as  hour , 
power,  flower,  dower,  your,  towards,  &c.,  are  used  by  the  Poet  as  one  or  two 
syllables  indifferently,  to  suit  his  verse. 

4  Broker  was  often  used  for  a  match-maker  or  go-between  ;  one  that 
broke  the  ice  between  bashful  lovers. 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  1 69 

And  you  an  officer  fit  for  the  place  ! 

There,  take  the  paper  :  see  it  be  return’d  ; 

Or  else  return  no  more  into  my  sight. 

Luc.  To  plead  for  love  deserves  more  fee  than  hate. 

Jul.  Will  ye  be  gone  ? 

Luc.  That  you  may  ruminate.  \_Exit 

Jul.  And  yet  I  would  I  had  o’erlook’d  the  letter : 

It  were  a  shame  to  call  her  back  again, 

And  pray  her  to  a  fault  for  which  I  chid  her. 

What  fool  is  she,5  that  knows  I  am  a  maid, 

And  would  not  force  the  letter  to  my  view  ! 

Since  maids,  in  modesty,  say  No  to  that 
Which  they  would  have  the  profferer  construe  Ay. 

Fie,  fie,  how  wayward  is  this  foolish  love, 

Thatj  like  a  testy  babe,  will  scratch  the  nurse, 

And  presently,  all  humbled,  kiss  the  rod  ! 

How  churlishly  I  chid  Lucetta  hence, 

When  willingly  I  would  have  had  her  here  ! 

How  angrily  I  taught  my  brow  to  frown, 

When  inward  joy  enforced  my  heart  to  smile  ! 

My  penance  is,  to  call  Lucetta  back, 

And  ask  remission  for  my  folly  past.  — 

What,  ho  !  Lucetta  ! 

Re-enter  Lucetta. 

Luc.  What  would  your  ladyship  ? 

Jul.  Is  it  near  dinner-time  ? 

Luc.  I  would  it  were, 

5  To  express  the  sense  of  this  passage,  we  should  say,  “  What  a  fool  she 
is !  ”  The  Poet  repeatedly  omits  the  article  in  such  exclamative  clauses. 
So  in  Twelfth  Night ,  ii.  5 :  “  What  dish  o’  poison  has  she  dress’d  him !  ” 
And  in  Julius  Ccesar ,  i.  3  :  “  Cassius,  what  night  is  this  !  ’’  Sometimes,  as 
in  the  text,  the  original  marks  such  omissions  with  an  apostrophe,  thus : 
“  What  ’  fool  is  she !  ” 


170 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  I. 


That  you  might  kill  your  stomach  6  on  your  meat, 

And  not  upon  your  maid. 

Jul .  What  is’t  that  you  took  up  so  gingerly?7 
Luc.  Nothing. 

Jul.  Why  didst  thou  stoop,  then  ? 

Luc.  To  take  a  paper  up  that  I  let  fall. 

Jul.  And  is  that  paper  nothing? 

Luc.  Nothing  concerning  me. 

Jul.  Then  let  it  lie  for  those  that  it  concerns. 

Luc.  Madam,  it  will  not  lie8  where  it  concerns, 

Unless  it  have  a  false  interpreter. 

Jul.  Some  love  of  yours  hath  writ  to  you  in  rhyme. 

Luc.  That  I  might  sing  it,  madam,  to  a  tune. 

Give  me  a  note  :  your  ladyship  can  set.9 

Jul.  As  little  by  such  toys  as  may  be  possible. 

Best  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  Light  o'  Love. 

Luc.  It  is  too  heavy  for  so  light  a  tune. 

Jul.  Heavy  !  belike  it  hath  some  burden,  then  ? 

Luc.  Ay  ;  and  melodious  were  it,  would  you  sing  it. 

Jul.  And  why  not  you  ? 

Luc.  I  cannot  reach  so  high. 

Jul.  Let’s  see  your  song  [ Taking  the  letter'].  Why,  how 
now,  minion  ! 

Luc.  Keep  tune  there  still,  so  you  will  sing  it  out : 

And  yet  methinks  I  do  not  like  this  tune. 

Jul.  You  do  not? 

Luc.  No,  madam ;  it  is  too  sharp. 

6  Stomach  in  the  double  sense  of  hunger  and  anger.  Pride ,  courage , 
and  resentment  are  also  among  the  meanings  of  stomach. 

7  Gingerly  is  nicely ,  cautiously.  To  touch  a  thing  gingerly,  is  to  touch  it 
as  if  it  burnt  the  fingers. 

8  A  quibble  upon  lie,  which  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  speaking  falsely. 

9  Meaning  set  it  to  music.  In  the  next  line,  Julia  plays  upon  the  word, 
taking  it  in  the  sense  of  set  by  or  make  account  of.  In  reference  to  what 
follows,  about  Light  o'  Love,  see  Much  Ado ,  iii.  4. 


SCENE  ii.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


171 


Jul.  You,  minion,  are  too  saucy. 

Luc.  Nay,  now  you  are  too  flat, 

And  mar  the  concord  with  too  harsh  a  descant : 

There  wanteth  but  a  mean  to  fill  your  song.10 
Jul.  The  mean  is  drown’d  with  your  unruly  base. 

Luc.  Indeed,  I  bid  the  base11  for  Proteus. 

Jul.  This  babble  shall  not  henceforth  trouble  me  :  — 

Here  is  a  coil12  with  protestation  !  —  \_Tears  the  letter. 

Go  get  you  gone,  and  let  the  papers  lie : 

You  would  be  fingering  them,  to  anger  me. 

Luc.  She  makes  it  strange  ;  but  she  would  be  best  pleased 
To  be  so  anger’d  with  another  letter.  [Exit,  ^-m**** 

Jul.  Nay,  would  I  were  so  anger’d  with  the  same  ! 

O  hateful  hands,  to  tear  such  loving  words  ! 

Injurious  wasps,  to  feed  on  such  sweet  honey, 

And  kill  the  bees,  that  yield  it,  with  your  stings  ! 

I’ll  kiss  each  several  paper  for  amends. 

Look,  here  is  writ  Kind  Julia  :  —  Unkind  Julia  ! 

As  in  revenge  of  thy  ingratitude, 

I  throw  thy  name  against  the  bruising  stones, 

Trampling  contemptuously  on  thy  disdain. 

And  here  is  writ  Love-wotmded  Proteus  :  — 

10  Descant  vi as  sometimes  used,  apparently,  for  what  we  call  variations. 

But  it  was  also  used  in  other  senses ;  and  here  it  seems  to  mean  harmony , 
or  music  in  parts,  as  distinguished  from  simple  melody  or  solo.  As  Mr. 

White  observes,  "  Lucetta’s  terms,  sharp,  fiat,  mar  the  concord,  show  that 
she  used  descant  because  she  and  her  mistress  were  at  discord,  and  descant 
meant  a  performance  in  strict  harmony."  —  Mean  was  used  for  the  inter¬ 
mediate  part  between  the  treble  and  the  tenor ;  so  named  because  it  served 
as  a  mean  or  harmonizing  medium.  —  This  use  of  musical  terms  before  a 
popular  audience  would  seem  to  infer  that  taste  and  knowledge  in  music 
was  a  characteristic  trait  of  “  merry  England  in  the  olden  time.” 

11  Lucetta  is  still  quibbling,  and  turns  the  allusion  off  upon  the  rustic 
game  of  base  or  prison-base,  in  which  one  ran  and  challenged  another  to 
catch  him. 

12  Coil  was  much  used  for  stir,  bustle,  or  fuss.  See  page  105,  note  8. 


172 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  i. 


Poor  wounded  name  !  my  bosom,  as  a  bed, 

Shall  lodge  thee,  till  thy  wound  be  throughly  13  heal’d ; 

And  thus  I  search  it  with  a  sovereign  kiss. 

But  twice  or  thrice  was  Proteus  written  down  :  — 

Be  calm,  good  wind,  blow  not  a  word  away, 

Till  I  have  found  each  letter  in  the  letter, 

Except  mine  own  name  :  that  some  whirlwind  bear 
Unto  a  ragged,  fearful-hanging  rock, 

And  throw  it  thence  into  the  raging  sea  !  — 

Lo,  here  in  one  line  is  his  name  twice  writ, 

Poor  forlorn  Proteus ,  passionate  Proteus , 

To  the  sweet  Julia :  —  that  I’ll  tear  away ;  — 

And  yet  I  will  not,  sith  14  so  prettily 
He  couples  it  to  his  complaining  names. 

Thus  will  I  fold  them  one  upon  another : 

Now  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  will. 

Re-enter  Lucetta. 

Luc.  Madam, 

Dinner  is  ready,  and  your  father  stays. 

Jul.  Well,  let  us  go. 

Luc.  What,  shall  these  papers  lie  like  tell-tales  here  ? 

Jul.  If  you  respect  them,  best  to  take  them  up. 

Luc.  Nay,  I  was  taken  up  for  laying  them  down  : 

Yet  here  they  shall  not  lie,  for 15  catching  cold. 

Jul.  I  see  you  have  a  month’s  mind16  to  them. 

13  Throughly  and  thoroiighly  are  but  different  forms  of  the  same  word, 
and  were  used  interchangeably. 

14  Sith  is  an  old  form  of  since ,  and  was  fast  giving  place  to  the  latter  in 
Shakespeare’s  time.  —  Names,  in  the  next  line,  refers,  apparently,  to  the 
repetition  of  the  name,  with  the  epithets  poor ,  forlorn,  and  passionate. 

15  For  was  much  used  in  the  sense  of  because  of  or  on  account  of.  So 
that  “  for  catching  cold  ”  means  “  because  they  will  catch  cold,”  or  “  lest 
they  catch  cold.” 

16  “  A  month’s  mind  ”  is  an  old  phrase  for  an  eager  desire  or  longing. 
So  in  Ben  Johnson’s  Magnetic  Lady  :  “I  have  a  month's  mind  to  peep  a 
little  too.”  And  in  Hudibras  :  “  For,  if  a  trumpet  sound  or  drum  beat,  who 


SCENE  III.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


1 73 


Luc.  Ay,  madam,  you  may  say  what  sights  you  see ; 

I  see  things  too,  although  you  judge  I  wink. 

Jul.  Come,  come  ;  will’t  please  you  go  ?  \_Exeunt. 


Scene  III.  —  The  Same.  A  Room  in  Antonio’s  House. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Panthino. 

Ant.  Tell  me,  Panthino,  what  sad 1  talk  was  that 
Wherewith  my  brother  held  you  in  the  cloister? 

Pan.  ’Twas  of  his  nephew  Proteus,  your  son. 

Ant.  Why,  what  of  him  ? 

Pan.  He  wonder’d  that  your  lordship 

Would  suffer  him  to  spend  his  youth  at  home, 

While  other  men,  of  slender  reputation, 

Put  forth  their  sons  to  seek  preferment  out : 

Some  to  the  wars,  to  try  their  fortune  there ; 

Some  to  discover  islands  far  away ; 

Some  to  the  studious  universities. 

For  any,  or  for  all  these  exercises, 

He  said  that  Proteus  your  son  was  meet ; 

And  did  request  me  to  impbrtune  you 
To  let  him  spend  his  time  no  more  at  home, 

Which  would  be  great  impeachment 2  to  his  age, 

In  having  known  no  travel  in  his  youth. 

Ant.  Nor  need’st  thou  much  impdrtune  me  to  that 
Whereon  this  month  I  have  been  hammering. 

I  have  consider’d  well  his  loss  of  time, 

And  how  he  cannot  be  a  perfect  man, 

Not  being  tried  and  tutor’d  in  the  world  : 

Experience  is  by  industry  achieved, 

hath  not  a  month's  mind  to  a  combat  ?  ”  In  its  origin  the  phrase  probably 
referred  to  a  woman’s  longing  in  the  first  month  of  pregnancy. 

1  Sad  was  continually  used  for  grave ,  serious ,  or  earnest. 

2  Impeachment  here  is  reproach  or  disqualification. 


174 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  I. 


And  perfected  by  the  swift  course  of  time. 

Then,  tell  me,  whither  were  I  best  to  send  him  ? 

Pan.  I  think  your  lordship  is  not  ignorant 
How  his  companion,  youthful  Valentine, 

Attends  the  Emperor  in  his  royal  Court. 

A?it.  I  know  it  well. 

Pan.  ’Twere  good,  I  think,  your  lordship  sent  him  thither  : 
There  shall  he  practise  tilts  and  tournaments, 

Hear  sweet  discourse,  converse  with  noblemen, 

And  be  in  eye  of  every  exercise 
Worthy  his  youth  and  nobleness  of  birth. 

Ant.  I  like  thy  counsel ;  well  hast  thou  advised  : 

And,  that  thou  mayst  perceive  how  well  I  like  it, 

The  execution  of  it  shall  make  known. 

Even  with  the  speediest  expedition 
I  will  dispatch  him  to  the  Emperor’s  Court. 

Pan.  To-morrow,  may  it  please  you,  Don  Alphonso, 

With  other  gentlemen  of  good  esteem, 

Are  journeying  to  salute  the  Emperor, 

And  to  commend  their  service  to  his  will. 

Ant.  Good  company ;  with  them  shall  Proteus  go  : 

And  —  in  good  time  !  —  now  will  we  break  with  him.3 

Enter  Proteus. 

Pro.  Sweet  love  !  sweet  lines  !  sweet  life  ! 

Here  is  her  hand,  the  agent  of  her  heart ; 

Here  is  her  oath  for  love,  her  honour’s  pawn. 

O,  that  our  fathers  would  applaud  our  loves, 

To  seal  our  happiness  with  their  consents  ! 

O  heavenly  Julia  ! 

Ant.  How  now  !  what  letter  are  you  reading  there? 

3  To  break  with  any  one  formerly  meant  to  break  or  open  a  matter  to 
him.  Shakespeare  has  it  thus  repeatedly.  —  “  In  good  time  ”  is  the  same  as 
our  phrase,  “  In  the  nick  of  time.” 


SCENE  III.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


175 


Pro.  May’t  please  your  lordship,  ’tis  a  word  or  two 
Of  commendations  sent  from  Valentine, 

Deliver’d  by  a  friend  that  came  from  him. 

Ant.  Lend  me  the  letter ;  let  me  see  what  news. 

Pro.  There  is  no  news,  my  lord ;  but  that  he  writes 
How  happily  he  lives,  how  well  beloved, 

And  daily  graced  by  the  Emperor ; 

Wishing  me  with  him,  partner  of  his  fortune. 

Ant.  And  how  stand  you  affected  to  his  wish? 

Pro.  As  one  relying  on  your  lordship’s  will, 

And  not  depending  on  his  friendly  wish. 

Ant.  My  will  is  something  sorted  with  his  wish. 

Muse  not  that  I  thus  suddenly  proceed ; 

For  what  I  will,  I  will,  and  there  an  end. 

I  am  resolved  that  thou  shalt  spend  some  time 
With  Valentinus  in  the  Emperor’s  Court : 

What  maintenance  he  from  his  friends  receives, 

Like  exhibition  4  thou  shalt  have  from  me. 

To-morrow  be  in  readiness  to  go  : 

Excuse  it  not,  for  I  am  peremptory. 

Pro.  My  lord,  I  cannot  be  so  soon  provided  : 

Please  you,  deliberate  a  day  or  two. 

Ant.  Look,  what  thou  want’st  shall  be  sent  after  thee  : 

No  more  of  stay  ;  to-morrow  thou  must  go.  — 

Come  on,  Panthino  :  you  shall  be  employ’d 

To  hasten  on  his  expedition.  \_Exeunt  Ant.  and  Pan. 

Pro.  Thus  have  I  shunn’d  the  fire  for  fear  of  burning, 

And  drench’d  me  in  the  sea,  where  I  am  drown’d. 

I  fear’d  to  show  my  father  Julia’s  letter, 

Lest  he  should  take  exceptions  to  my  love ; 

And  with  the  vantage  of  mine  own  excuse 
Hath  he  excepted  most  against  my  love. 

4  Exhibition  is  allowance  of  money  ;  still  used  so  in  the  English 
Universities. 


176  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  II. 


O,  how  this  Spring  of  love  resembleth  5 
Th’  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day, 

Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  Sun, 

And  by- and- by  a  cloud  takes  all  away  ! 

Re-enter  Panthino. 

Pan.  Sir  Proteus,  your  father  calls  for  you  : 

He  is  in  haste  ;  therefore,  I  pray  you,  go. 

Pro.  Why,  this  it  is,  —  my  heart  accords  thereto, 

And  yet  a  thousand  times  it  answers,  No.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I.  —  Milan.  A  Rootn  in  the  Duke’s  Palace. 

Enter  Valentine  and  Speed. 

Speed.  [. Picking  zip  a  glove.']  Sir,  your  glove. 

Val.  Not  mine  ;  my  gloves  are  on. 

Speed.  Why,  then  this  may  be  yours,  for  this  is  but  one.1 
Val.  Ha,  let  me  see  :  ay,  give  it  me,  it’s  mine  :  — 

Sweet  ornament  that  decks  a  thing  divine  ! 

Ah,  Silvia,  Silvia  ! 

Speed.  [  Calling .]  Madam  Silvia,  Madam  Silvia  ! 

Val.  How  now,  sirrah  ! 

Speed.  She  is  not  within  hearing,  sir. 

Val.  Why,  sir,  who  bade  you  call  her? 

Speed.  Your  Worship,  sir ;  or  else  I  mistook. 

Val.  Well,  you’ll  still  be  too  forward. 

5  Resembleth  is  here  meant  to  be  a  word  of  four  syllables,  as  if  it  were 
spelt  resembeleth. 

1  On  and  one  were  formerly  sounded  alike,  and  sometimes  written  so. 
That  is  the  ground  of  the  poor  quibble  here. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


177 


Speed.  And  yet  I  was  last  chidden  for  being  too  slow. 

Veil.  Go  to,2  sir  :  tell  me,  do  you  know  Madam  Silvia? 

Speed.  She  that  your  Worship  loves  ? 

Val.  Why,  how  know  you  that  I  am  in  love  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  by  these  special  marks  :  First,  you  have 
learn’d,  like  Sir  Proteus,  to  wreathe  your  arms,  like  a  mal¬ 
content;  to  relish  a  love-song,  like  a  robin-redbreast;  to 
walk  alone,  like  one  that  had  the  pestilence ;  to  sigh,  like  a 
school-boy  that  had  lost  his  ABC;  to  weep,  like  a  young 
wench  that  had  buried  her  grandam ;  to  fast,  like  one  that 
takes  diet ; 3  to  watch,  like  one  that  fears  robbing ;  to  speak 
puling,  like  a  beggar  at  Hallowmas.4  You  were  wont,  when 
you  laugh’d,  to  crow  like  a  cock ;  when  you  walk’d,  to  walk 
like  one  of  the  lions ;  when  you  fasted,  it  was  presently  after 
dinner ;  when  you  look’d  sadly,  it  was  for  want  of  money : 
and  now  you  are  so  metamorphosed  with  a  mistress,  that, 
when  I  look  on  you,  I  can  hardly  think  you  my  master. 

Val.  Are  all  these  things  perceived  in  me  ? 

Speed.  They  are  all  perceived  without  ye. 

Val.  Without  me  !  they  cannot. 

Speed.  Without  you  !  nay,  that’s  certain,  for,  without 5  you 
were  so  simple,  none  else  would :  but  you  are  so  without 
these  follies,  that  these  follies  are  within  you,  and  shine 


2  Go  to  is  a  phrase  met  with  continually  in  old  colloquial  English ;  often 
meaning  hush  up,  sometimes  come  on,  and  sometimes  carrying  a  sense  not 
easy  to  define ;  somewhat  like  the  Latin  age. 

3  To  take  diet  is  to  be  under  a  regimen  for  a  disease. 

4  The  feast  of  All-hallows  or  All  Saints,  at  which  time  the  poor  in  some 
places  used  to  go  from  parish  to  parish  a-sou/ing,  as  they  called  it ;  that 
is,  begging  and  puling,  (or  singing  small,  as  Bailey  explains  puling ,)  for 
soul-cakes,  and  singing  what  they  called  the  souler’s  song.  All  which 
means  that  the  beggars  were  to  pray  for  the  souls  of  the  giver’s  departed 
friends. 

5  Speed  is  punning  with  all  his  speed.  Here,  without  is  unless.  His 
first  without  is  meant  in  the  sense  of  exterior ,  or  on  the  outside ;  and  Valen¬ 
tine  takes  it  in  the  sense  of  absence ,  or  without  my  presence. 


178  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  II. 


through  you  like  the  water  in  an  urinal,  that  not  an  eye  that 
sees  you  but  is  a  physician  to  comment  on  your  malady. 

Val.  But  tell  me,  dost  thou  know  my  lady  Silvia? 

Speed.  She  that  you  gaze  on  so,  as  she  sits  at  supper? 

Val.  Hast  thou  observed  that?  even  she  I  mean. 

Speed.  Why,  sir,  I  know  her  not. 

Val.  Dost  thou  know  her  by  my  gazing  on  her,  and  yet 
know’st  her  not  ? 

Speed.  Is  she  not  hard-favour’d,  sir? 

Val.  Not  so  fair,  boy,  as  well-favour’d. 

Speed.  Sir,  I  know  that  well  enough. 

Val.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Speed.  That  she  is  not  so  fair  as,  of  you,  well  favour’d. 

Val.  I  mean,  that  her  beauty  is  exquisite,  but  her  favour 
infinite. 

Speed.  That’s  because  the  one  is  painted,  and  the  other 
out  of  all  count. 

Val.  How  painted  ?  and  how  out  of  count  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  so  painted,  to  make  her  fair,  that  no 
man  counts  of  her  beauty. 

Val.  How  esteem’st  thou  me  ?  I  account  of  her  beauty. 

Speed.  You  never  saw  her  since  she  was  deform’d. 

Val.  How  long  hath  she  been  deform’d  ? 

Speed.  Ever  since  you  loved  her. 

Val.  I  have  loved  her  ever  since  I  saw  her ;  and  still  I  see 
her  beautiful. 

Speed.  If  you  love  her,  you  cannot  see  her. 

Val.  Why? 

Speed.  Because  Love  is  blind.  O,  that  you  had  mine 
eyes ;  or  your  own  eyes  had  the  lights  they  were  wont  to 
have  when  you  chid  at  Sir  Proteus  for  going  ungarter’d  ! 6 

6  So,  in  As  You  Like  It,  iii.  2,  Rosalind  mentions  going  ungartered  as 
one  of  the  undoubted  marks  of  love :  “  Then  your  hose  should  be  ungar¬ 
tered,  your  bonnet  unbanded,”  &c. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


179 


Val.  What  should  I  see  then? 

Speed.  Your  own  present  folly,  and  her  passing  deformity  : 
For  he,  being  in  love,  could  not  see  to  garter  his  hose ; 

And  you,  being  in  love,  cannot  see  to  beyond  your  nose. 

Val.  Belike,  boy,  then,  you  are  in  love ;  for  last  morning 
you  could  not  see  to  wipe  my  shoes. 

Speed.  True,  sir ;  I  was  in  love  with  my  bed :  I  thank 
you,  you  swinged  me  for  my  love,  which  makes  me  the 
bolder  to  chide  you  for  yours. 

Val.  In  conclusion,  I  stand  affected  to  her. 

Speed.  I  would  you  were  set;7  so  your  affection  would 
cease. 

Val.  Last  night  she  enjoin’d  me  to  write  some  lines  to 
one  she  loves. 

Speed.  And  have  you? 

Val.  I  have. 

Speed.  Are  they  not  lamely  writ  ? 

Val.  No,  boy,  but  as  well  as  I  can  do  them.  Peace  ! 
here  she  comes. 

Speed.  \_Aside.~\  O  excellent  motion ! 8  O  exceeding 
puppet !  Now  will  he  interpret  to  her. 

Enter  Silvia. 

Val.  Madam  and  mistress,  a  thousand  good-morrows  ! 

Speed.  \_Aside. ]  O,  give  ye  good  even  !  here’s  a  million 
of  manners. 

Sil.  Sir  Valentine  and  servant,  to  you  two  thousand. 

Speed.  [Aside. He  should  give  her  interest,  and  she 
gives  it  him. 

7  Set  for  seated ,  in  opposition  to  stand  of  the  preceding  line.  An  allusion 
seems  implied  also  to  the  setting  of  the  Sun,  as  the  Sun  then  ceases  to 
shine. 

8  Motion  was  used  of  a  puppet-show ,  and  the  showman  was  called  the 
interpreter.  Speed  means,  “  What  a  fine  puppet-show  we  shall  have  now  ! 
Here  is  the  principal  puppet,  and  my  master  will  act  as  showman.” 


i8o 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  II. 


Val.  As  you  enjoin’d  me,  I  have  writ  your  letter 
Unto  the  secret  nameless  friend  of  yours ; 

Which  I  was  much  unwilling  to  proceed  in, 

But  for  my  duty  to  your  ladyship.  [  Gives  a  letter. 

Sit.  I  thank  you,  gentle  servant :  ’tis  very  clerkly  done. 
Val.  Now  trust  me,  madam,  it  came  hardly  off ; 

For,  being  ignorant  to  whom  it  goes, 

I  writ  at  random,  very  doubtfully. 

Sit.  Perchance  you  think  too  much  of  so  much  pains  ? 

Val.  No,  madam ;  so  it  stead  you,  I  will  write, 

Please  you  command,  a  thousand  times  as  much : 

And  yet  — 

Sil.  A  pretty  period  !  Well,  I  guess  the  sequel ; 

And  yet  I  will  not  name’t ;  —  and  yet  I  care  not ;  — 

And  yet  take  this  again  ;  —  and  yet  I  thank  you  ; 

Meaning  henceforth  to  trouble  you  no  more. 

Speed.  [Aside. And  yet  you  will ;  and  yet  another  yet. 
Val.  What  means  your  ladyship  ?  do  you  not  like  it  ? 

Sil.  Yes,  yes  ;  the  lines  are  very  quaintly9  writ : 

But,  since  unwillingly,  take  them  again  ;  — 

Nay,  take  them.  [  Gives  back  the  letter. 

Val.  Madam,  they  are  for  you. 

Sil.  Ay,  ay,  you  writ  them,  sir,  at  my  request ; 

But  I  will  none  of  them  ;  they  are  for  you  : 

I  would  have  had  them  writ  more  movingly. 

Val.  Please  you,  I’ll  write  your  ladyship  another. 

Sil.  And  when  it’s  writ,  for  my  sake  read  it  over : 

And  if  it  please  you,  so  ;  if  not,  why,  so. 

Val.  If  it  please  me,  madam  !  what  then  ? 

Sil.  Why,  if  it  please  you,  take  it  for  your  labour  : 

And  so,  good  morrow,  servant.  [Exit. 

9  Quaint  and  quaintly  are  used  by  Shakespeare  very  much  like  the 
Latin  comptus ,  from  which  the  words  are  probably  derived ;  in  the  sense  of 
artful ,  ingenious ,  elegant. 


SCENE  I.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  1 8 1 

Speed.  O  jest  unseen,  inscrutable,  invisible, 

As  a  nose  on  a  man’s  face,  or  a  weathercock  on  a  steeple  ! 
My  master  sues  to  her ;  and  she  hath  taught  her  suitor, 

He  being  her  pupil,  to  become  her  tutor. 

O  excellent  device  !  was  there  ever  heard  a  better, 

That  my  master,  being  scribe,  to  himself  should  write  the 
letter  ? 

Val.  How  now,  sir !  what  are  you  reasoning  with  your¬ 
self  ? 

Speed.  Nay,  I  was  rhyming  :  ’tis  you  that  have  the  reason. 
Val.  To  do  what? 

Speed.  To  be  a  spokesman  from  Madam  Silvia. 

Val.  To  whom  ? 

Speed.  To  yourself :  why,  she  wooes  you  by  a  figure. 

Val.  What  figure  ? 

Speed.  By  a  letter,  I  should  say. 

Val.  Why,  she  hath  not  writ  to  me  ? 

Speed.  What  need  she,  when  she  hath  made  you  write  to 
yourself?  Why,  do  you  not  perceive  the  jest? 

Val.  No,  believe  me. 

Speed.  No  believing  you,  indeed,  sir.  But  did  you  per¬ 
ceive  her  earnest? 

Val.  She  gave  me  none,  except  an  angry  word. 

Speed.  Why,  she  hath  given  you  a  letter. 

Val.  That’s  the  letter  I  writ  to  her  friend. 

Speed.  And  that  letter  hath  she  deliver’d,  and  there  an 
end. 

Val.  I  would  it  were  no  worse. 

Speed.  I’ll  warrant  you,  ’tis  as  well : 

For  often  have  you  writ  to  her ;  and  she ,  in  modesty , 

Or  else  for  want  of  idle  tune ,  could  not  again  reply  ; 

Or,  fearing  else  some  messenger  that  might  her  mind  discover , 
Herself  hath  taught  her  love  himself  to  write  unto  her  lover. 


1 82 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  11. 


All  this  I  speak  in  print,10  for  in  print  I  found  it. — Why 
muse  you,  sir?  ’tis  dinner-time. 

Val.  I  have  dined. 

Speed.  Ay,  but  hearken,  sir  :  Though  the  chameleon  Love 
can  feed  on  the  air,11  I  am  one  that  am  nourish’d  by  my 
victuals,  and  would  fain  have  meat.  O,  be  not  like  your 
mistress ;  be  moved,  be  moved.  [ Exeunt . 


Scene  II.  —  Verona.  The  Garden  of  Julia’s  House. 

Enter  Proteus  and  Julia. 

Pro.  Have  patience,  gentle  Julia. 

Jul.  I  must,  where  is  no  remedy. 

Pro.  When  possibly  I  can,  I  will  return. 

Jul.  If  you  turn  not,  you  will  return  the  sooner. 

Keep  this  remembrance  for  thy  Julia’s  sake. 

[  Gives  him  a  ring. 

Pro.  Why,  then  we’ll  make  exchange ;  here,  take  you 
this.  [  Gives  her  another. 

Jul.  And  seal  the  bargain  with  a  holy  kiss. 

Pro.  Here  is  my  hand  for  my  true  constancy ; 

And  when  that  hour  o’erslips  me  in  the  day 
Wherein  I  sigh  not,  Julia,  for  thy  sake, 

The  next- ensuing  hour  some  foul  mischance 
Torment  me  for  my  love’s  forgetfulness  ! 

My  father  stays  my  coming ;  answer  not ; 

10  To  speak  in  print  is  to  speak  with  precision ,  or,  as  Hamlet  says,  “  by 
the  card."  Speed  is  quibbling  still,  having  probably  found  the  lines  in  some 
printed  ballad. 

11  Upon  this,  Staunton  quotes  from  The  World  in  the  Moon,  1697  :  “  Oh 
Palmerin,  Palmerin,  how  cheaply  dost  thou  furnish  out  thy  table  of  love ! 
Canst  feed  upon  a  thought !  live  upon  hopes !  feast  upon  a  look !  fatten 
upon  a  smile !  and  surfeit  and  die  upon  a  kiss !  What  a  Cameleon  lover  is 
a  Platonick !  ” 


SCENE  ill.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


183 


The  tide  is  now  :  —  nay,  not  thy  tide  of  tears  ; 

That  tide  will  stay  me  longer  than  I  should : 

Julia,  farewell !  —  [_Exit  Julia. 

What,  gone  without  a  word  ? 

Ay,  so  true  love  should  do  :  it  cannot  speak ; 

For  truth  hath  better  deeds  than  words  to  grace  it. 

Enter  Panthino. 

Pan.  Sir  Proteus,  you  are  stay’d  for. 

Pro.  Go ;  I  come,  I  come  :  — 

Alas,  this  parting  strikes  poor  lovers  dumb  !  \_Exeunt. 

Scene  III.  —  TJie  Same.  A  Street. 

Enter  Launce,  leading  a  Dog. 

Launce.  Nay,  ’twill  be  this  hour  ere  I  have  done  weeping ; 
all  the  kind  of  the  Launces  have  this  very  fault.  I  have  re¬ 
ceived  my  proportion,  like  the  prodigious  son,  and  am  going 
with  Sir  Proteus  to  the  Imperial’s  Court.  I  think  Crab  my 
dog  be  the  sourest-natured  dog  that  lives  :  my  mother  weep¬ 
ing,  my  father  wailing,  my  sister  crying,  our  maid  howling, 
our  cat  wringing  her  hands,  and  all  our  house  in  a  great  per¬ 
plexity,  yet  did  not  this  cruel-hearted  cur  shed  one  tear  :  he 
is  a  stone,  a  very  pebble-stone,  and  has  no  more  pity  in  him 
than  a  dog  :  a  Jew  would  have  wept  to  have  seen  our  part¬ 
ing  ;  why,  my  grandam,  having  no  eyes,  look  you,  wept  herself 
blind  at  my  parting.1  Nay,  I’ll  show  you  the  manner  of  it. 
This  shoe  is  my  father ;  —  no,  this  left  shoe  is  my  father ;  — 
no,  no,  this  left  shoe  is  my  mother ;  —  nay,  that  cannot  be  so 
neither;  —  yes,  it  is  so,  it  is  so,  —  it  hath  the  worser  sole. 
This  shoe,  with  the  hole  in  it,  is  my  mother,  and  this  my 
father ;  a  vengeance  011’t !  there  ’tis :  now,  sir,  this  staff  is 

1  Part ,  verb,  was  very  often  used  for  depart.  Shakespeare  has  it  so  in 
almost  numberless  places. 


1 84 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  II. 


my  sister  ;  for,  look  you,  she  is  as  white  as  a  lily,  and  as  small 
as  a  wand  :  this  hat  is  Nan,  our  maid :  I  am  the  dog ;  —  no, 
the  dog  is  himself,  and  I  am  the  dog,  —  O,  the  dog  is  me, 
and  I  am  myself;  ay,  so,  so.2  Now  come  I  to  my  father: 
Father ,  your  blessing!  now  should  not  the  shoe  speak  a 
word  for  weeping :  now  should  I  kiss  my  father  :  well,  he 
weeps  on.  Now  come  I  to  my  mother  ;  —  O,  that  the  shoe 
could  speak  now  like  a  wood  3  woman  ! — well,  I  kiss  her  ;  — 
why,  there  ’tis ;  here’s  my  mother’s  breath  up  and  down.4 
Now  come  I  to  my  sister  :  mark  the  moan  she  makes.  Now 
the  dog  all  this  while  sheds  not  a  tear,  nor  speaks  a  word : 
but  see  how  I  lay  the  dust  with  my  tears. 

Enter  Panthino. 

Pan.  Launce,  away,  away,  aboard  !  thy  master  is  shipp’d, 
and  thou  art  to  post  after  with  oars.  What’s  the  matter? 
why  weepest  thou,  man?  Away,  ass  !  you’ll  lose  the  tide,  if 
you  tarry  any  longer. 

Launce.  It  is  no  matter  if  the  tied  were  lost ;  for  it  is  the 
unkindest  tied  that  ever  any  man  tied. 

Pan.  What’s  the  unkindest  tide  ? 

Launce.  Why,  he  that’s  tied  here,  —  Crab,  my  dog. 

Pan.  Tut,  man,  I  mean  thou’lt  lose  the  flood :  and,  in 
losing  the  flood,  lose  thy  voyage  ;  and,  in  losing  thy  voyage, 
lose  thy  master ;  and,  in  losing  thy  master,  lose  thy  service  ; 
and,  in  losing  thy  service,  —  Why  dost  thou  stop  my  mouth  ? 

Launce.  For  fear  thou  shouldst  lose  thy  tongue. 

Pan.  Where  should  I  lose  my  tongue  ? 

Launce.  In  thy  tale. 

Pan.  In  my  tail ! 

2  Launce  here  gets  entangled  with  his  own  ingenuity,  and  the  Poet  prob¬ 
ably  did  not  mean  to  extricate  him. 

3  Wood  is  an  old  word  for  frantic  or  mad ;  the  speaker  meaning  that  his 
mother  was  frantic  with  grief  at  parting  with  so  hopeful  a  son. 

4  Up  and  down  is  an  old  phrase  meaning  exactly ,  or  to  perfection. 


SCENE  IV.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


185 


Launce.  Lose  the  tide,  and  the  voyage,  and  the  master, 
and  the  service,  and  the  tied  !  5  Why,  man,  if  the  river  were 
dry,  I  am  able  to  fill  it  with  my  tears  ;  if  the  wind  were  down, 
I  could  drive  the  boat  with  my  sighs. 

Pan.  Come,  come  away,  man  ;  I  was  sent  to  call  thee. 
Launce.  Sir,  call  me  what  thou  darest. 

Pan.  Wilt  thou  go  ? 

Launce.  Well,  I  will  go.  \_Exeunt. 

\ 

Scene  IV.  —  Milan.  A  Room  in  the  Duke’s  Palace. 

Enter  Silvia,  Valentine,  Thurio,  and  Speed. 

Sil.  Servant,  — 

Val.  Mistress  ? 

Speed.  Master,  Sir  Thurio  frowns  on  you. 

Val.  Ay,  boy,  it’s  for  love. 

Speed.  Not  of  you. 

Val.  Of  my  mistress,  then. 

Speed.  ’Twere  good  you  knock’d  him. 

Sil.  Servant,  you  are  sad. 

Val.  Indeed,  madam,  I  seem  so. 

Thu.  Seem  you  that  you  are  not  ? 

Val.  Haply  I  do. 

Thu.  So  do  counterfeits. 

Val.  So  do  you. 

Thu.  What  seem  I  that  I  am  not  ? 

Val.  Wise. 

Thu.  What  instance  of  the  contrary  ? 

Val.  Your  folly. 

Thu.  And  how  quote  1  you  my  folly  ? 

5  The  first,  tide ,  refers  to  the  river,  the  last,  tied ,  to  the  dog.  The  original 
spells  tide  and  tied  the  same  way,  tide ;  which  makes  the  quibble  more 
obvious  to  the  eye. 

1  To  quote  is  to  mark  or  observe  ;  formerly  pronounced  and  often  written 
cote :  hence  used  as  the  pivot  of  a  quibble  in  the  next  line. 


t  86 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  II. 


Val.  I  quote  it  in  your  jerkin. 

Thu .  My  jerkin  is  a  doublet. 

Val.  Well,  then  I’ll  double  your  folly. 

Thu.  How ! 

Sil,  What,  angry,  Sir  Thurio  !  do  you  change  colour  ? 

Val.  Give  him  leave,  madam ;  he  is  a  kind  of  chameleon. 

Tim.  That  hath  more  mind  to  feed  on  your  blood  than  live 
in  your  air. 

Val.  You  have  said,  sir. 

Thu.  Ay,  sir,  and  done  too,  for  this  time. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir ;  you  always  end  ere  you  begin. 

Sil.  A  fine  volley  of  words,  gentlemen,  and  quickly  shot 
off. 

Val.  ’Tis  indeed,  madam  ;  we  thank  the  giver. 

Sil.  Who  is  that,  servant? 

Val.  Yourself,  sweet  lady;  for  you  gave  the  fire.  Sir 
Thurio  borrows  his  wit  from  your  ladyship’s  looks,  and  spends 
what  he  borrows  kindly  in  your  company. 

Thu.  Sir,  if  you  spend  word  for  word  with  me,  I  shall 
make  your  wit  bankrupt. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir ;  you  have  an  exchequer  of  words, 
and,  I  think,  no  other  treasure  to  give  your  followers,  —  for  it 
appears,  by  their  bare  liveries,  that  they  live  by  your  bare 
words. 

Sil.  No  more,  gentlemen,  no  more  :  here  comes  my  father. 

Enter  the  Duke. 

Duke.  Now,  daughter  Silvia,  you  are  hard  beset.  — 

Sir  Valentine,  your  father’s  in  good  health  : 

What  say  you  to  a  letter  from  your  friends 
Of  much  good  news  ? 

Val.  My  lord,  I  will  be  thankful 

To  any  happy  messenger  from  thence. 

Duke.  Know  ye  Don  Antonio,  your  countryman  ? 


scene  IV.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  1 8/ 

Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  I  know  the  gentleman 
To  be  of  worth2  and  worthy  estimation, 

And  not  without  desert  so  well  reputed. 

Duke .  Hath  he  not  a  son  ? 

Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  a  son  that  well  deserves 
The  honour  and  regard  of  such  a  father. 

Duke.  You  know  him  well? 

Val.  I  know  him  as  myself ;  for  from  our  infancy 
We  have  conversed  and  spent  our  hours  together : 

And  though  myself  have  been  an  idle  truant, 

Omitting  the  sweet  benefit  of  time 
To  clothe  mine  age  with  angel-like  perfection, 

Yet  hath  Sir  Proteus,  for  that’s  his  name, 

Made  use  and  fair  advantage  of  his  days ; 

His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old ; 

His  head  unmellow’d,  but  his  judgment  ripe  ; 

And,  in  a  word,  —  for  far  behind  his  worth 
Come  all  the  praises  that  I  now  bestow,  — 

He  is  complete  in  feature  3  and  in  mind, 

With  all  good  grace,  to  grace  a  gentleman. 

Duke.  Beshrew  me,4  sir,  but,  if  he  make  this  good, 

He  is  as  worthy  for  an  empress’  love 
As  meet  to  be  an  emperor’s  counsellor. 

Well,  sir,  this  gentleman  is  come  to  me, 

With  commendation  from  great  potentates  ; 

And  here  he  means  to  spend  his  time  awhile  : 

I  think  ’tis  no  unwelcome  news  to  you. 

2  Worth  is  repeatedly  used  by  the  Poet  for  wealth;  nor  is  the  usage 
peculiar  to  him.  Walker  thinks  it  a  misprint  for  wealth  here;  but  this  play 
especially  delights  in  the  jingle  of  consonous  words  in  discrepant  senses ; 
as  a  few  speeches  later  :  “  With  all  good  grace  to  grace  a  gentleman.” 

3  Feature  here  refers  to  the  form ,  figure ,  or  person  in  general.  Shake¬ 
speare  has  it  so  a  number  of  times.  And  so  Spenser :  "  Which  the  fair 
feature  of  her  limbs  did  hide.” 

4  Beshrew  me  was  much  used  as  a  petty  adjuration. 


.* 


1 88 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  II. 


Val.  Should  I  have  wish’d  a  thing,  it  had  been  he. 

Duke.  W elcome  him,  then,  according  to  his  worth  : 

Silvia,  I  speak  to  you  ;  and  you,  Sir  Thurio  :  — 

For  Valentine,  I  need  not  cite5  him  to  it. 

I’ll  send  him  hither  to  you  presently.  \_Exit. 

Val.  This  is  the  gentlemen  I  told  your  ladyship 
Had  come  along  with  me,  but  that  his  mistress 
Did  hold  his  eyes  lock’d  in  her  crystal  looks. 

Sil.  Belike  that  now  she  hath  enfranchised  them, 

Upon  some  other  pawn  for  fealty. 

Val.  Nay,  sure,  I  think  she  holds  them  prisoners  still. 

Sil.  Nay,  then  he  should  be  blind ;  and,  being  blind, 

How  could  he  see  his  way  to  seek  out  you? 

Val.  Why,  lady,  Love  hath  twenty  pair  of  eyes. 

Thu.  They  say  that  Love  hath  not  an  eye  at  all. 

Val.  To  see  such  lovers,  Thurio,  as  yourself : 

Upon  a  homely  object  Love  can  wink. 

Sil.  Have  done,  have  done  ;  here  comes  the  gentleman. 

Enter  Proteus. 

Val.  Welcome,  dear  Proteus  !  —  Mistress,  I  beseech  you, 
Confirm  his  welcome  with  some  special  favour. 

Sil.  His  worth  is  warrant  for  his  welcome  hither, 

If  this  be  he  you  oft  have  wish’d  to  hear  from. 

Val.  Mistress,  it  is  :  sweet  lady,  entertain  him 
To  be  my  fellow-servant  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.  Too  low  a  mistress  for  so  high  a  servant. 

Pro.  Not  so,  sweet  lady ;  but  too  mean  a  servant 
To  have  a  look  of  such  a  worthy  mistress. 

Val.  Leave  off  discourse  of  disabilty  :  — 

Sweet  lady,  entertain  him  for  your  servant. 

5  Cite ,  commonly  'cite  for  incite ,  is  itself  a  full  legitimate  word,  from  the 
Latin  cieo,  meaning  to  excite ,  rouse,  or  put  in  motion .  To  quote,  mention, 
call  upon  are  secondary  meanings  of  the  same  original  words,  as  they  also 
are  of  its  Latin  derivative  cito. 


SCENE  IV.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


189 


Pro.  My  duty  will  I  boast  of,  nothing  else. 

Sil.  And  duty  never  yet  did  want  his  meed  : 

Servant,  you’re  welcome  to  a  worthless  mistress. 

Pro.  I’ll  die  on  him  that  says  so,  but  yourself. 

Sil.  That  you  are  welcome  ? 

Pro.  No ;  that  you  are  worthless. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Madam,  my  lord  your  father  would  speak  with  you. 
Sil.  I  wait  upon  his  pleasure.  —  \_Exit  Servant. 

Come,  Sir  Thurio, 

Go  you  with  me.  —  Once  more,  new  servant,  welcome  : 

I’ll  leave  you  to  confer  of  home  affairs  ; 

When  you  have  done,  we  look  to  hear  from  you. 

Pro.  We’ll  both  attend  upon  your  ladyship. 

\_Exeunt  Silvia  and  Thurio. 
Val.  Now,  tell  me,  how  do  all  from  whence  you  came  ? 
Pro.  Your  friends  are  well,  and  have  them  much  com¬ 
mended. 

Val.  And  how  do  yours  ? 

Pro.  I  left  them  all  in  health. 

Val.  How  does  your  lady  ?  and  how  thrives  your  love  ? 
Pro.  My  tales  of  love  were  wont  to  weary  you  ; 

I  know  you  joy  not  in  a  love-discourse. 

Val.  Ay,  Proteus,  but  that  life  is  alter’d  now. 

I  have  done  penance  for  contemning  Love  : 

Those  high-imperious  thoughts  have  punish’d  me 
With  bitter  fasts,  with  penitential  groans, 

With  nightly  tears,  and  daily  heart-sore  sighs ; 

For,  in  revenge  of  my  contempt  of  love, 

Love  hath  chased  sleep  from  my  enthralled  eyes, 

And  made  them  watchers  of  mine  own  heart’s  sorrow. 

\ 

O,  gentle  Proteus,  Love’s  a  mighty  lord, 

And  hath  so  humbled  me,  as,  I  confess, 


I9O  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  ACT  II. 

There  is  no  woe  to6  his  correction, 

Nor  to  his  service  no  such  joy  on  Earth  ! 

Now,  no  discourse,  except  it  be  of  love  : 

Now  can  I  break  my  fast,  dine,  sup,  and  sleep, 

Upon  the  very  naked  name  of  love. 

Pro .  Enough  ;  I  read  your  fortune  in  your  eye. 

Was  this  the  idol  that  you  worship  so  ? 

Val.  Even  she  ;  and  is  she  not  a  heavenly  saint  ? 

Pro.  No  ;  but  she  is  an  earthly  paragon. 

Val.  Call  her  divine. 

Pro.  I  will  not  flatter  her. 

Val.  O,  flatter  me  ;  for  love  delights  in  praise. 

Pro.  When  I  was  sick,  you  gave  me  bitter  pills ; 

And  I  must  minister  the  like  to  you. 

Val.  Then  speak  the  truth  by  her  : 7  if  not  divine, 

Yet  let  her  be  a  principality,8 
Sovereign  to  all  the  creatures  on  the  Earth. 

Pro.  Except  my  mistress. 

Val.  Sweet,  except  not  any ; 

Except  thou  wilt  except  against  my  love. 

Pro.  Have  I  not  reason  to  prefer  mine  own? 

Val.  And  I  will  help  thee  to  prefer  her  too  : 

She  shall  be  dignified  with  this  high  honour,  — 

To  bear  my  lady’s  train,  lest  the  base  earth 
Should  from  her  vesture  chance  to  steal  a  kiss, 

And,  of  so  great  a  favour  growing  proud, 

Disdain  to  root  the  summer-swelling  flower, 

And  make  rough  Winter  everlastingly. 

6  To  for  compared  to  or  in  comparison  with  ;  an  old  and  frequent  use  of 
the  word.  So  in  an  old  ballad :  “  There  is  no  comfort  in  the  world  to 
women  that  are  kind.”  And  a  little  later  in  this  scene :  “All  I  can  is  noth¬ 
ing  to  her,  whose  worth,”  &c. 

7  “  Speak  the  truth  of  her.”  Shakespeare  has  by  repeatedly  thus.  So  in 
The  Merchant ,  i.  2 :  “  How  say  you  by  the  French  lord?  ” 

8  A  principality  is  an  angel  of  a  high  order. 


SCENE  IV.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


I9I 


Pro.  Why,  Valentine,  what  braggardism  is  this? 

Val.  Pardon  me,  Proteus  :  all  I  can  is  nothing 
To  her,  whose  worth  makes  other  worthies  nothing  : 

She  is  alone. 

Pro.  Why,  then  let  her  alone. 

Val.  Not  for  the  world  :  why,  man,  she  is  mine  own; 
And  I  as  rich  in  having  such  a  jewel 
As  twenty  seas,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl. 

The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 

Forgive  me,  that  I  do  not  dream  on  thee, 

Because  thou  see’st  me  dote  upon  my  love. 

My  foolish  rival,  that  her  father  likes 
Only  for9  his  possessions  are  so  huge, 

Is  gone  with  her  along ;  and  I  must  after, 

For  love,  thou  know’st,  is  full  of  jealousy. 

Pro.  But  she  loves  you  ? 

Val.  Ay, 

And  we’re  betroth’d  :  nay,  more,  our  marriage-hour, 

With  all  the  cunning  manner  of  our  flight, 

Determined  of ;  how  I  must  climb  her  window, 

The  ladder  made  of  cords  ;  and  all  the  means 
Plotted  and  ’greed  on  for  my  happiness. 

Good  Proteus,  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 

In  these  affairs  to  aid  me  with  thy  counsel. 

Pro.  Go  on  before  ;  I  shall  inquire  you  forth  : 

I  must  unto  the  road,10  to  disembark 
Some  necessaries  that  I  needs  must  use ; 

And  then  I’ll  presently  attend  on  you. 

Val.  Will  you  make  haste  ? 

Pro.  I  will.  —  [. Exeunt  Valentine  and  Speed. 

9  For  in  the  sense  of  becaitse  ;  a  usage  now  nearly  or  quite  obsolete,  even 
in  poetry,  but  very  common  in  the  old  writers.  The  Poet  has  it  often.  So 
in  The  Merchant ,  i.  3  :  “I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian.” 

10  The  haven  where  the  ships  lie  at  anchor. 


192 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  11. 


Even  as  one  heat  another  heat  expels, 

Or  as  one  nail  by  strength  drives  out  another, 

So  the  remembrance  of  my  former  love 
Is  by  a  newer  object  quite  forgotten. 

Is  it  mine  eye,  or  Valentinus’  praise, 

Her  true  perfection,  or  my  false  transgression, 

That  makes  me,  reasonless,  to  reason  thus  ? 

She’s  fair ;  and  so  is  Julia,  that  I  love,  — 

That  I  did  love,  for  now  my  love  is  thaw’d ; 

Which,  like  a  waxen  image  ’gainst  a  fire, 

Bears  no  impression  of  the  thing  it  was. 

Methinks  my  zeal  to  Valentine  is  cold, 

And  that  I  love  him  not  as  I  was  wont : 

O,  but  I  love  his  lady  too-too  much ; 

And  that’s  the  reason  I  love  him  so  little. 

How  shall  I  dote  on  her  with  more  advice,11 
That  thus  without  advice  begin  to  love  her ! 

’Tis  but  her  picture  12  I  have  yet  beheld, 

And  that  hath  dazzled  13  my  reason’s  light ; 

But  when  I  look  on  her  perfections, 

There  is  no  reason  but  I  shall  be  blind.14 
If  I  can  check  my  erring  love,  I  will ; 

If  not,  to  compass  her  I’ll  use  my  skill.  [Ex//. 

11  Advice  for  acquaintance  or  knowledge ;  a  common  use  of  the  word, 
as  also  of  the  verb  advise,  in  old  writers.  So  in  Cymbeline,  i.  2 :  “  Make 
yourself  some  comfort  out  of  your  best  advice."  And  Bacon  says  that  judges 
ought  to  be  “  more  advised  than  confident.” 

12  The  Poet  has  been  censured  for  making  Proteus  say  he  has  but  seen 
the  picture  of  Silvia,  when  he  has  just  been  talking  with  the  lady  herself. 
But  this  is  making  a  blunder,  not  finding  one.  Proteus  wants  to  get  deeper 
in  love  with  Silvia,  and  so  resorts  to  the  argument,  that  the  little  he  has 
seen  of  her  is  as  though  he  had  but  seen  her  picture. 

13  Dazzled  is  here  meant  to  be  a  trisyllable,  as  in  the  case  of  resembleth , 
mentioned  before,  page  176,  note  5. 

14  "  No  cause  that  will  keep  me  from  being  blind.” 


LIBRARY 
Of  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILL!NO!c 


 **  hjwMwyw 


Mp 


Speed.  "  What  an  ass  art  thou  !  I  understand  thee  not.” 

Launce.  "  What  a  block  art  thou,  that  thou  canst  not  ! 

My  staff  understands  me.11 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  Act  2,  Scene  5. 


Page  1 93. 


SCENE  V.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


193 


Scene  V.  —  The  Same.  A  Street. 

Enter  Speed  and  Launce  severally. 

Speed.  Launce  !  by  mine  honesty,  welcome  to  Milan  ! 

Launce.  Forswear  not  thyself,  sweet  youth  ;  for  I  am  not 
welcome.  I  reckon  this  always,  —  that  a  man  is  never 
undone  till  he  be  hang’d ;  nor  never  welcome  to  a  place  till 
some  certain  shot  be  paid,  and  the  hostess  say,  Welcome. 

Speed.  Come  on,  you  madcap,  I’ll  to  the  alehouse  with 
you  presently ;  where,  for  one  shot  of  five  pence,  thou  shalt 
have  five  thousand  welcomes.  But,  sirrah,  how  did  thy  mas¬ 
ter  part  with  Madam  Julia? 

Launce.  Marry,1  after  they  closed  in  earnest,  they  parted 
very  fairly  in  jest. 

Speed.  But  shall  she  marry  him? 

Launce.  No. 

Speed.  How,  then?  shall  he  marry  her? 

Launce.  No,  neither. 

Speed.  What,  are  they  broken  ? 

Launce.  No,  they  are  both  as  whole  as  a  fish. 

Speed.  Why,  then  how  stands  the  matter  with  them  ? 

Launce.  Marry,  thus ;  when  it  stands  well  with  him,  it 
stands  well  with  her. 

Speed.  What  an  ass  art  thou  !  I  understand  thee  not. 

Launce.  What  a  block  art  thou,  that  thou  canst  not  ! 
My  staff  understands  me. 

Speed.  What  thou  say’st? 

Launce.  Ay,  and  what  I  do  too  :  look  thee,  I’ll  but  lean, 
and  my  staff  understands  me. 

Speed.  It  stands  under  thee,  indeed. 

1  Marry  is  an  old  colloquial  intensive,  occurring  continually  in  Shake' 
speare  and  the  other  dramatists  of  that  age ;  much  like  the  Latin  heracle 
and  edepol.  See  page  103,  note  3. 


194 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  II. 


Launce.  Why,  stand-under  and  under-stand  is  all  one. 

Speed.  But  tell  me  true,  will’t  be  a  match  ? 

Launce.  Ask  my  dog  :  if  he  say  ay,  it  will ;  if  he  say  no, 
it  will ;  if  he  shake  his  tail  and  say  nothing,  it  will. 

Speed.  The  conclusion  is,  then,  that  it  will. 

Launce.  Thou  shalt  never  get  such  a  secret  from  me  but 
by  a  parable. 

Speed.  ’Tis  well  that  I  get  it  so.  But,  Launce,  how  sayest 
thou,2  that  my  master  is  become  a  notable  lover? 

Launce.  I  never  knew  him  otherwise. 

Speed.  Than  how? 

Launce.  A  notable  lubber,  as  thou  reportest  him  to  be. 

Speed.  Why,  thou  whoreson  ass,  thou  mistakest  me. 

Launce.  Why,  fool,  I  meant  not  thee  ;  I  meant  thy  master. 

Speed.  I  tell  thee,  my  master  is  become  a  hot  lover. 

Launce.  Why,  I  tell  thee,  I  care  not  though  he  burn  him¬ 
self  in  love.  If  thou  wilt  go  with  me  to  the  alehouse,  so  ;  if 
not,  thou  art  an  Hebrew,  a  Jew,  and  not  worth  the  name  of 
a  Christian. 

Speed.  Why  ? 

Launce.  Because  thou  hast  not  so  much  charity  in  thee 
as  to  go  to  the  ale  3  with  a  Christian.  Wilt  thou  go  ? 

Speed.  At  thy  service.  [. Exeunt . 

Scene  VI.  —  The  Same.  A  Room  in  the  Duke’s  Palace . 

Enter  Proteus. 

Pro.  To  leave  my  Julia,  shall  I  be  forsworn ; 

To  love  fair  Silvia,  shall  I  be  forsworn ; 

To  wrong  my  friend,  I  shall  be  much  forsworn ; 

2  “  What  do  you  say  to  this?  ”  So  in  Macbeth ,  iii.  4  :  “  Mow  say' st  thou , 
that  Macduff  denies  his  person  at  our  great  bidding?  ”  meaning,  “  What  do 
you  say  to  this  fact  or  circwnstance  ?  ” 

3  Another  quibble ;  ale  being  the  name  of  an  old  Church  festival,  to 
which,  as  Launce  thinks,  none  but  a  Jew  would  refuse  to  go. 


SCENE  VI.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


195 


And  even  that  power  which  gave  me  first  my  oath 
Provokes  me  to  this  threefold  perjury  : 

Love  bade  me  swear,  and  Love  bids  me  forswear : 

O  sweet-suggesting  Love,  if  thou  hast  sinn’d,1 
Teach  me,  thy  tempted  subject,  to  excuse  it ! 

At  first  I  did  adore  a  twinkling  star, 

But  now  I  worship  a  celestial  sun  : 

Unheedful  vows  may  heedfully  be  broken  ; 

And  he  wants  wit  that  wants  resolved  will 
To  learn  his  wit  t’  exchange  the  bad  for  better. 

Fie,  fie,  unreverend  tongue  !  to  call  her  bad, 

Whose  sovereignty  so  oft  thou  hast  preferr’d 
With  twenty  thousand  soul-confirming  oaths. 

I  cannot  leave2  to  love,  and  yet  I  do ; 

But  there  I  leave  to  love  where  I  should  love. 

Julia  I  lose,  and  Valentine  I  lose  : 

If  I  keep  them,  I  needs  must  lose  myself; 

If  I  lose  them,  this  find  I  by  their  loss,  — 

For  Valentine,  myself ;  for  Julia,  Silvia. 

I  to  myself  am  dearer  than  a  friend, 

For  love  is  still  most  precious  in  itself ; 

And  Silvia  —  witness  Heaven,  that  made  her  fair  !  — 

Shows  Julia  but  a  swarthy  Ethiop. 

I  will  forget  that  Julia  is  alive, 

Remembering  that  my  love  to  her  is  dead ; 

And  Valentine  I’ll  hold  an  enemy, 

Aiming  at  Silvia  as  a  sweeter  friend. 

I  cannot  now  prove  constant  to  myself, 

1  “  If  thou  hast  sinn’d,’’  provided  the  reading  be  right,  must  mean,  “  If 
thou  has  sinn’d  in  causing  or  tempting  me  to  sin.”  —  Sweet-suggesting  is 
sweetly-tempting ,  an  old  and  common  use  of  suggest. 

2  Leave  for  cease  or  desist.  The  Poet  has  it  repeatedly.  So  in  2  Hemy 
VI.,  iii.  2:  “You  bade  me  ban,  and  will  you  bid  me  leave?"  And  in 
Hamlet ,  i.  2 :  “  Ere  yet  the  salt  of  most  unrighteous  tears  had  left  the  flush¬ 
ing  in  her  galled  eyes,  she  married.” 


196  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  II. 


Without  some  treachery  used  to  Valentine. 

This  night  he  meaneth  with  a  corded  ladder 
To  climb  celestial  Silvia’s  chamber-window ; 

Myself  in  counsel  his  competitor  :  3 
Now  presently  I’ll  give  her  father  notice 
Of  their  disguising  and  pretended  4  flight ; 

Who,  all  enraged,  will  banish  Valentine, 

For  Thurio  he  intends  shall  wed  his  daughter : 

But,  Valentine  being  gone,  I’ll  quickly  cross, 

By  some  sly  trick,  blunt  Thurio’s  dull  proceeding. 

Love,  lend  me  wings  to  make  my  purpose  swift, 

As  thou  hast  lent  me  wit  to  plot  this  drift ! 5  \_Exit. 

Scene  VII.  —  Verona.  A  Room  in  Julia’s  House. 

Enter  Julia  and  Lucetta. 

Jut.  Counsel,  Lucetta ;  gentle  girl,  assist  me  ; 

And,  even  in  kind  love,  I  do  cbnjure 1  thee,  — 

Who  art  the  table 2  wherein  all  my  thoughts 

3  Competitor  in  its  old  sense  of  associate  or  partner.  So  in  Antony  and 
Cleopatra ,  v.  1 :  “  That  thou,  my  brother,  my  competitor  in  top  of  all  design, 
my  mate  in  empire,  friend  and  cotnpanioti  in  the  front  of  war.”  —  In  counsel 
is  in  secret.  Often  so. 

4  Here  pretended  means  intended,  as  the  word  was  very  often  used  in 
Shakespeare’s  time.  So  in  Macbeth,  ii.  2:  “Alas  the  day!  what  good 
could  they  pretend?  ”  And  in  the  same  scene  we  have  pretence  used  for 
purpose  or  intention  :  “Against  the  undivulged  pretence  I  fight  of  treasonous 
malice.” 

5  Drift  here  is  course  of  action,  device,  or  stratagem.  So,  again,  in  iv. 
2,  of  this  play :  “  I  will  so  plead,  that  you  shall  say  my  cunning  drift  excels.” 

1  In  Shakespeare’s  time  the  two  ways  of  pronouncing  this  word,  conjure 
and  conjure,  had  not  become  appropriated  to  different  senses.  Here  conjure 
has  the  sense  of  earnestly  e7itreat.  Elsewhere  the  Poet  has  conjure  in  the 
sense  oi  practising  magic. 

2  Table  for  case  or  book  of  tablets,  such  as  were  carried  in  the  pocket  to 
note  down  memoranda.  So  in  Hamlet,  i.  5  :  “  From  the  table  of  my  memory 
I’ll  wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records."  And  again:  “My  tables:  meet  it 
is  I  set  it  down,  that  one  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain.” 


SCENE  vil.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


197 


Are  visibly  character’d  and  engraved,  — 

To  lesson  me  ;  and  tell  me  some  good  mean, 

How,  with  my  honour,  I  may  undertake 
A  journey  to  my  loving  Proteus. 

Luc.  Alas,  the  way  is  wearisome  and  long  ! 

Jul.  A  true-devoted  pilgrim  is  not  weary 
To  measure  kingdoms3  with  his  feeble  steps ; 

Much  less  shall  she  that  hath  Love’s  wings  to  fly, 

And  when  the  flight  is  made  to  one  so  dear, 

Of  such  divine  perfection,  as  Sir  Proteus. 

Luc.  Better  forbear  till  Proteus  make  return. 

Jul.  O,  know’st  thou  not,  his  looks  are  my  soul’s  food  ? 
Pity  the  dearth  that  I  have  pined  in, 

By  longing  for  that  food  so  long  a  time. 

Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love, 

Thou  wouldst  as  soon  go  kindle  fire  with  snow 
As  seek  to  quench  the  fire  of  love  with  words. 

Luc.  I  do  not  seek  to  quench  your  love’s  hot  fire, 

But  qualify  the  fire’s4  Extreme  rage, 

Lest  it  should  burn  above  the  bounds  of  reason. 

Jul.  The  more  thou  damm’st  it  up,  the  more  it  burns : 
The  current  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides, 

Thou  know’st,  being  stopp’d,  impatiently  doth  rage ; 

But,  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered, 

He  makes  sweet  music  with  th’  enamell’d  stones, 

Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 
He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage  ; 

And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  strays, 

3  Alluding  to  the  pilgrimages  formerly  made  by  religious  devotees,  often 
to  Rome,  Compostella,  and  Jerusalem,  but  oftener  still  to  "the  House  of 
our  Lady  at  Loretto.”  In  that  age,  when  there  were  few  roads  and  many 
robbers,  to  go  afoot  and  alone  through  all  the  pains  and  perils  of  a  pilgrim¬ 
age  from  England  to  either  of  those  shrines,  was  deemed  proof  that  the 
person  was  in  earnest. 

4  Fire  again  as  a  dissyllable.  See  page  168,  note  3. 


198 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  11. 


With  willing  sport,  to  the  wide  ocean. 

Then  let  me  go,  and  hinder  not  my  course  : 

I’ll  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream, 

And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step, 

Till  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love ; 

And  there  I’ll  rest,  as,  after  much  turmoil, 

A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

Luc.  But  in  what  habit  will  you  go  along? 

Jul.  Not  like  a  woman  ;  for  I  would  prevent 
The  loose  encounters  of  lascivious  men  : 

Gentle  Lucetta,  fit  me  with  such  weeds 
As  may  beseem  some  well-reputed  page. 

Luc.  Why,  then  your  ladyship  must  cut  your  hair. 

Jul.  No,  girl ;  I’ll  knit  it  up  in  silken  strings 
With  twenty  odd-conceited  true-love  knots  : 

To  be  fantastic  may  become  a  youth 
Of  greater  time  than  I  shall  show  to  be. 

Luc.  What  fashion,  madam,  shall  I  make  your  breeches  ? 
Jul.  That  fits  as  well  as  —  Tell  me ,  good  my  lord , 

What  compass  will  you  wear  your  Jarthingale  ?  5 
Why,  even  what  fashion  thou  best  likest,  Lucetta. 

Luc.  You  must  needs  have  them  with  a  codpiece,6 
Jul.  Out,  out,  Lucetta  !  that  will  be  ill-favour’d. 

Luc.  A  round  hose,  madam,  now’s  not  worth  a  pin, 
Unless  you  have  a  codpiece  to  stick  pins  on. 

Jul.  Lucetta,  as  thou  lovest  me,  let  me  have 
What  thou  think’st  meet,  and  is  most  mannerly. 

But  tell  me,  wench,  how  will  the  world  repute  me 

6  The  farthingale,  Mr.  Fairholt  tells  us,  was  originally  a  broad  roll,  which 
made  the  person  full  about  the  hips.  It  came  to  be  applied  to  the  gown  so 
widened.  —  White. 

6  Codpiece  was  the  coarse  name  formerly  given  to  a  certain  part  of  a  man’s 
nether  garment.  The  name  seems  to  have  passed  out  of  use  long  ago  ;  tne 
thing,  unsightly  as  it  was,  continued  in  use  till  a  recent  period. 


scene  vil.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


I99 


For  undertaking  so  unstaid  a  journey? 

I  fear  me,  it  will  make  me  scandalized. 

Luc.  If  you  think  so,  then  stay  at  home,  and  go  not. 

Jul.  Nay,  that  I  will  not. 

Luc.  Then  never  dream  on  infamy,  but  go. 

If  Proteus  like  your  journey  when  you  come, 

No  matter  who’s  displeased  when  you  are  gone : 

I  fear  me,  he  will  scarce  be  pleased  withal. 

Jul.  That  is  the  least,  Lucetta,  of  my  fear  : 

A  thousand  oaths,  an  ocean  of  his  tears, 

And  instances  o’  the  infinite  of  love,7 
Warrant  me  welcome  to  my  Proteus. 

Luc.  All  these  are  servants  to  deceitful  men. 

Jul.  Base  men,  that  use  them  to  so  base  effect ! 

But  truer  stars  did  govern  Proteus’  birth  : 

His  words  are  bonds,  his  oaths  are  oracles ; 

His  love  sincere,  his  thoughts  immaculate ; 

His  tears  pure  messengers  sent  from  his  heart 
His  heart  as  far  from  fraud  as  heaven  from  earth. 

Luc.  Pray  Heaven  he  prove  so,  when  you  come  to  him  ! 
Jul.  Now,  as  thou  lovest  me,  do  him  not  that  wrong, 

To  bear  a  hard  opinion  of  his  truth  : 

Only  deserve  my  love  by  loving  him ; 

And  presently  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 

To  take  a  note  of  what  I  stand  in  need  of, 

To  furnish  me  upon  my  longing  journey.8 
All  that  is  mine  I  leave  at  thy  dispose, 


7  Infinite  for  infi,7iity.  So,  in  Much  Ado ,  ii.  3,  we  have,  “  It  is  past  the 
infinite  of  thought.”  And  in  Chaucer :  “  Although  the  life  of  it  be  stretched 
with  infinite  of  time.” 

8  “  My  longing  journey,”  if  such  be  the  right  text,  seems  to  mean  “  the 
journey  that  I  long  to  be  making.”  Or  it  may  mean  "  the  journey  that  I 
shall  make  with  continual  longing  to  be  at  the  end  of  it."  See  Critical 
Notes.  —  Dispose ,  in  the  next  line,  is  for  disposal.  Repeatedly  so.  See  page 
80,  note  4. 


200 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  III. 


My  goods,  my  lands,  my  reputation ; 

Only,  in  lieu  therof,9  dispatch  me  hence. 

Come,  answer  not,  but  to  it  presently ; 

I  am  impatient  of  my  tarriance.  \Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.  —  Milan.  An  Ante-room  in  the  Duke’s  Palace. 

Enter  Duke,  Thurio,  and  Proteus. 

Duke.  Sir  Thurio,  give  us  leave,  I  pray,  awhile  ; 

We  have  some  secrets  to  confer  about. —  \_Exit  Thurio. 
Now,  tell  me,  Proteus,  what’s  your  will  with  me? 

Pro.  My  gracious  lord,  that  which  I  would  discover 
The  law  of  friendship  bids  me  to  conceal ; 

But,  when  I  call  to  mind  your  gracious  favours 
Done  to  me,  undeserving  as  I  am, 

My  duty  pricks  me  on  to  utter  that 

Which  else  no  worldly  good  should  draw  from  me. 

Know,  worthy  Prince,  Sir  Valentine,  my  friend, 

This  night  intends  to  steal  away  your  daughter ; 

Myself  am  one  made  privy  to  the  plot. 

I  know  you  have  determined  to  bestow  her 
On  Thurio,  whom  your  gentle  daughter  hates  ; 

And,  should  she  thus  be  stol’n  away  from  you, 


9  The  phrase  “in  lieu  of"  formerly  meant  in  return  for ,  or  in  considera¬ 
tion  of.  So  in  Hooker’s  Eccle.  Pol.,  i.  xi.  5 :  “  But  be  it  that  God  of  His 
great  liberality  had  determined  in  lieu  of  man’s  endeavours  to  bestow  the 
same."  And  in  Spenser’s  dedication  of  his  Four  Hymns  :  “  Beseeching  you 
to  accept  this  my  humble  service  in  lieu  of  the  great  graces  and  honourable 
favours  which  ye  daily  show  unto  me." 


SCENE  i.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


201 


It  would  be  much  vexation  to  your  age. 

Thus,  for  my  duty’s  sake,  I  rather  chose 
To  cross  my  friend  in  his  intended  drift 
Than,  by  concealing  it,  heap  on  your  head 
A  pack  of  sorrows,  which  would  press  you  down, 

Being  unprevented,  to  your  timeless 1  grave. 

Duke.  Proteus,  I  thank  thee  for  thine  honest  care ; 

Which  to  requite,  command  me  while  I  live. 

This  love  of  theirs  myself  have  often  seen, 

Haply  when  they  have  judged  me  fast  asleep  ; 

And  oftentimes  have  purposed  to  forbid 
Sir  Valentine  her  company  and  my  Court : 

But,  fearing  lest  my  jealous  aim  2  might  err, 

And  so,  unworthily,  disgrace  the  man,  — 

A  rashness  that  I  ever  yet  have  shunn’d,  — 

I  gave  him  gentle  looks ;  thereby  to  find 
That  which  thyself  hast  now  disclosed  to  me. 

And,  that  thou  mayst  perceive  my  fear  of  this, 

Knowing  that  tender  youth  is  soon  suggested,3 
I  nightly  lodge  her  in  an  upper  tower, 

The  key  whereof  myself  have  ever  kept ; 

And  thence  she  cannot  be  convey’d  away. 

Pro.  Know,  noble  lord,  they  have  devised  a  mean 
How  he  her  chamber-window  will  ascend, 

And  with  a  corded  ladder  fetch  her  down ; 

For  which  the  youthful  lover  now  is  gone, 

And  this  way  comes  he  with  it  presently ; 

1  Timeless  for  tintimely.  Repeatedly  thus.  So  in  Romeo  and  Juliet ,  v. 
3 :  “  Poison,  I  see,  hath  been  his  timeless  end.”  And  in  Richard  II.,  iv.  i : 
“  Who  perform’d  the  bloody  office  of  his  timeless  end.” 

2  Aim,  here,  is  guess ;  a  common  use  of  the  word.  So  in  Julius  Caesar, 
i.  2 :  “  What  you  would  work  me  to,  I  have  some  aim.”  And  in  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  i.  I :  "I  aim'd  so  near,  when  I  supposed  you  loved.”  Also,  in 
the  next  speech  :  “That  my  discovery  be  not  aimed  at." 

3  Suggested  for  tempted.  See  page  195,  note  1. 


202 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  III. 


Where,  if  it  please  you,  you  may  intercept  him. 

But,  good  my  lord,  do  it  so  cunningly 
That  my  discovery  be  not  aimed  at ; 

For  love  of  you,  not  hate  unto  my  friend, 

Hath  made  me  publisher  of  this  pretence.4 

Duke.  Upon  mine  honour,  he  shall  never  know 
That  I  had  any  light  from  thee  of  this. 

Pro.  Adieu,  my  lord ;  Sir  Valentine  is  coming.  [ Exit 

Enter  Valentine. 

Duke.  Sir  Valentine,  whither  away  so  fast? 

Vat.  Please  it  your  Grace,  there  is  a  messenger 
That  stays  to  bear  my  letters  to  my  friends, 

And  I  am  going  to  deliver  them. 

Duke.  Be  they  of  much  import  ? 

Vat.  The  tenour  of  them  doth  but  signify 
My  health,  and  happy  being  at  your  Court. 

Duke.  Nay,  then  no  matter ;  stay  with  me  awhile  : 

I  am  to  break  with  thee  of  some  affairs 

That  touch  me  near,  wherein  thou  must  be  secret. 

Tis  not  unknown  to  thee  that  I  have  sought 
To  match  my  friend  Sir  Thurio  to  my  daughter. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  my  lord  ;  and,  sure,  the  match 
Were  rich  and  honourable  ;  besides,  the  gentleman 
Is  full  of  virtue,  bounty,  worth,  and  qualities 
Beseeming  such  a  wife  as  your  fair  daughter  : 

Cannot  your  Grace  win  her  to  fancy  him?' 

Duke.  No,  trust  me ;  she  is  peevish,  sullen,  froward, 
Proud,  disobedient,  stubborn,  lacking  duty ; 

Neither  regarding  that  she  is  my  child, 

Nor  fearing  me  as  if  I  were  her  father  : 

And,  may  I  say  to  thee,  this  pride  of  hers, 


4  Pretence  for  purpose  or  design.  See  page  196,  note  4. 


SCENE  I.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


203 


Upon  advice,5  hath  drawn  my  love  from  her ; 

And,  where  6  I  thought  the  remnant  of  mine  age 
Should  have  been  cherish’d  by  her  child-like  duty, 

I  now  am  full  resolved  to  take  a  wife, 

And  turn  her  out  to  who  will  take  her  in : 

Then  let  her  beauty  be  her  wedding-dower ; 

For  me  and  my  possessions  she  esteems  not. 

Val.  What  would  your  Grace  have  me  to  do  in  this  ? 
Duke.  There  is  a  lady  in  Milano  here 
Whom  I  affect ;  but  she  is  nice  and  coy, 

And  nought  esteems  my  aged  eloquence  : 

Now,  therefore,  would  I  have  thee  to  my  tutor, 

(For  long  agone  I  have  forgot  to  court ; 

Besides,  the  fashion  of  the  time  is  changed,) 

How,  and  which  way,  I  may  bestow7  myself, 

To  be  regarded  in  her  sun-bright  eye. 

Val.  Win  her  with  gifts,  if  she  respect  not  words  : 

Dumb  jewels  often,  in  their  silent  kind, 

More  than  quick  words,  do  move  a  woman’s  mind. 

Duke.  But  she  did  scorn  a  present  that  I  sent  her. 

Val.  A  woman  sometime  scorns  what  best  contents  her  : 
Send  her  another ;  never  give  her  o’er  ; 

For  scorn  at  first  makes  after-love  the  more. 

If  she  do  frown,  ’tis  not  in  hate  of  you, 

But  rather  to  beget  more  love  in  you  : 

6  “  Upon  advice ”  here  has  the  sense  of  deliberately  or  after  careful 
weighing.  So  in  Measure  for  Measure ,  v.  i:  “Yet  did  repent  me,  after 
more  advice .”  And  in  The  Merchant ,  iv.  2 :  “  My  Lord  Bassanio,  upon 
more  advice ,  hath  sent  you  here  this  ring.”  See  page  192,  note  n. 

6  Where  was,  just  before  Shakespeare’s  time,  continually  used  for 
whereas.  He  has  it  thus  in  divers  places,  though  the  usage  was  fast  dying 
out. —  In  the  next  line,  should  for  would ,  in  accordance  with  the  old  undif¬ 
ferentiated  use  of  could,  should ,  and  would. 

7  The  Poet  repeatedly  has  bestow  in  the  sense  of  behave.  So  in  As  You 
Like  It,  iv.  3 :  “  The  boy  is  fair,  of  female  favour,  but  bestows  himself  like  a 
right  forester.” 


204 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  in. 


If  she  do  chide,  ’tis  not  to  have  you  gone  ; 

For  why  the  fools  are  mad,8  if  left  alone. 

Take  no  repulse,  whatever  she  doth  say ; 

For  get  you  gone ,  she  doth  not  mean  away  / 

Flatter  and  praise,  commend,  extol  their  graces  : 

Though  ne’er  so  black,  say  they  have  angels’  faces. 

That  man  that  hath  a  tongue,  I  say,  is  no  man, 

If  with  his  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman. 

Duke.  But  she  I  mean  is  promised  by  her  friends 
Unto  a  youthful  gentleman  of  worth  ; 

And  kept  severely  from  resort  of  men, 

That  no  man  hath  access  by  day  to  her. 

Val.  Why,  then  I  would  resort  to  her  by  night. 

Duke.  Ay,  but  the  doors  be  lock’d,  and  keys  kept  safe, 
That  no  man  hath  recourse  to  her  by  night. 

Val.  What  lets 9  but  one  may  enter  at  her  window  ? 

Duke.  Her  chamber  is  aloft,  far  from  the  ground, 

And  built  so  shelving,  that  one  cannot  -climb  it 
Without  apparent  hazard  of  his  life. 

8  For  why ,  as  Dyce  amply  shows,  was  often  used  with  the  simple  force 
of  because  or  for  ihe  reason  that.  Shakespeare  has  it  thus  repeatedly.  So 
also  in  The  Troublesome  Raig?ie  of  King  John,  1622:  “  If  thou  art  resolv’d, 
I  will  absolve  thee  here  from  all  thy  sinnes,  for  why  the  deed  is  merito¬ 
rious.” —  White  prints  the  passage  in  the  text,  “For  why!  —  the  fools  are 
mad.”  Some  others  print,  “  For  why,  the  fools  are  mad.”  Both  evidently 
wrong;  there  should  be  no  point  after  why.  This  reminds  me  that  the 
phrase  is  wrongly  printed  in  the  Psalter,  wherever  it  occurs ;  at  least  in  all 
the  editions  that  I  have  seen.  Thus  in  Psalm  xvi.  10,  11 :  “Wherefore  my 
heart  was  glad,  and  my  glory  rejoiced :  my  flesh  also  shall  rest  in  hope : 
for  why?  thou  shalt  not  leave  my  soul  in  hell,”  &c.  Here  the  logic  clearly 
requires  the  sense  of  because  or  for  ;  as  the  Bible  version  has  it :  “  For  thou 
wilt  not  leave  my  soul  in  hell.”  And  so  the  Psalter  ought  evidently  to  be 
printed  “  for  why  thou  shalt  not,"  &c.  See  page  112,  note  33. 

9  Here  lets  is  the  old  word,  now  out  of  use,  meaning  to  hinder.  So  in 
the  Collect  for  the  4th  Sunday  in  Advent :  “  Whereas,  through  our  sins  and 
wickedness,  we  are  sore  let  and  hindered  in  running  the  race  that  is  set  be¬ 
fore  us,”  &c. 


SCENE  I.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  205 

Val.  Why,  then  a  ladder,  quaintly  made  of  cords, 

To  cast  up,  with  a  pair  of  anchoring  hooks, 

Would  serve  to  scale  another  Hero’s  tower, 

So  bold  Leander  would  adventure  it. 

Duke.  Now,  as  thou  art  a  gentleman  of  blood, 

Advise  me  where  I  may  have  such  a  ladder. 

Val.  When  would  you  use  it  ?  pray,  sir,  tell  me  that. 
Duke.  This  very  night ;  for  Love  is  like  a  child, 

That  longs  for  every  thing  that  he  can  come  by. 

Val.  By  seven  o’clock  I’ll  get  you  such  a  ladder. 

Duke.  But,  hark  thee  ;  I  will  go  to  her  alone  : 

How  shall  I  best  convey  the  ladder  thither? 

Val.  It  will  be  light,  my  lord,  that  you  may  bear  it 
Under  a  cloak  that  is  of  any  length. 

Duke.  A  cloak  as  long  as  thine  will  serve  the  turn? 

Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  me  see  thy  cloak  : 

I’ll  get  me  one  of  such  another  length. 

Val.  Why,  any  cloak  will  serve  the  turn,  my  lord. 

Duke.  How  shall  I  fashion  me  to  wear  a  cloak  ? 

I  pray  thee,  let  me  feel  thy  cloak  upon  me.  — 

What  letter  is  this  same  ?  What’s  here  ?  —  To  Silvia  / 

And  here  an  engine  fit  for  my  proceeding  ! 

I’ll  be  so  bold  to  break  the  seal  for  once. 

[Reads.]  My  thoughts  do  harbour  with  my  Silvia  nightly  ; 
And  slaves  they  are  to  me ,  that  send  them  flying  : 

O,  could  their  master  come  and  go  as  lightly , 

Himself  would  lodge  where  senseless  they  are  lying! 

My  herald  thoughts  in  thy  pure  bosom  rest  them  ; 

While  I,  their  king ,  that  thither  them  importune , 

Do  curse  the  Grace  that  with  such  grace  hath  bless’ d  them , 
Because  myself  do  want  my  servants’  fortune : 

I  curse  myself,  for  they  are  sent  by  me, 

That  they  should  harbour  where  their  lord  would  be. 


20  6 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  III. 


What’s  here? 

Silvia,  this  night  I  will  enfranchise  thee  : 

’Tis  so ;  and  here’s  the  ladder  for  the  purpose. 

Why,  Phaethon, —  for  thou  art  Merops’  son,10  — 

Wilt  thou  aspire  to  guide  the  heavenly  car, 

And  with  thy  daring  folly  burn  the  world  ? 

Wilt  thou  reach  stars,  because  they  shine  on  thee? 

Go,  base  intruder  !  overweening  slave  ! 

Bestow  thy  fawning  smiles  on  equal  mates ; 

And  think  my  patience,  more  than  thy  desert, 

Is  privilege  for  thy  departure  hence  : 

Thank  me  for  this,  more  than  for  all  the  favours 
Which,  all  too  much,  I  have  bestow’d  on  thee. 

But  if  thou  linger  in  my  territories 

Longer  than  swiftest  expedition 

Will  give  thee  time  to  leave  our  royal  Court, 

By  Heaven,  my  wrath  shall  far  exceed  the  love 
I  ever  bore  my  daughter  or  thyself. 

Be  gone  !  I  will  not  hear  thy  vain  excuse  ; 

But,  as  thou  lovest  thy  life,  make  speed  from  hence.  \_Exit 
Val.  And  why  not  death,  rather  than  living  torment  ? 

To  die,  is  to  be  banish’d  from  myself ; 

And  Silvia  is  myself :  banish’d  from  her, 

10  The  Duke  probably  calls  him  Merops’  son  by  way  of  reproach. 
Phaethon  was  the  son  of  Phoebus  the  Sun-god  by  the  Oceanid  Clymene, 
wife  of  Merops.  According  to  Ovid,  some  slighted  his  high  pretensions,  as 
thinking  him  the  son  of  his  mother's  husband.  The  youth  took  this  so 
hard,  that  he  must  needs  go  to  Phoebus,  and  beg  the  favour  of  being 
allowed  to  drive  his  team  for  one  day,  as  a  formal  and  public  recognition 
of  him  in  the  character  he  was  so  proud  of.  Phoebus,  in  a  gush  of  fatherly 
affection,  granted  his  prayer,  before  he  knew  what  it  was  to  be,  and  swore 
by  Styx,  so  that  he  could  not  recede  from  the  promise.  Phaethon  made  a 
bad  job  of  it,  as  his  father  had  feared  he  would  ;  getting  the  world  so  out  of 
order  through  his  ambitious  incompetency,  —  for  his  father’s  horses  were 
mighty  high-strung,  —  that  Jupiter  had  to  knock  him  over  with  a  thunder¬ 
bolt. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


20 7 


Is  self  from  self,  —  a  deadly  banishment ! 
What  light  is  light,  if  Silvia  be  not  seen  ? 
What  joy  is  joy,  if  Silvia  be  not  by? 

Unless  it  be  to  think  that  she  is  by, 

And  feed  upon  the  shadow  of  perfection. 
Except  I  be  by  Silvia  in  the  night, 

There  is  no  music  in  the  nightingale ; 
Unless  I  look  on  Silvia  in  the  day, 

There  is  no  day  for  me  to  look  upon  : 

She  is  my  essence  ;  and  I  leave 1 1  to  be, 

If  I  be  not  by  her  fair  influence 
Foster’d,  illumined,  cherish’d,  kept  alive. 

I  fly  not  death,  to  fly 12  this  deadly  doom : 
Tarry  I  here,  I  but  attend  on  death ; 

But,  fly  I  hence,  I  fly  away  from  life. 


Enter  Proteus  and  Launce. 

Pro.  Run,  boy,  run,  run,  and  seek  him  out. 

Launce.  So-ho,  so-ho  ! 

Pro.  What  see’st  thou  ? 

Launce.  Him  we  go  to  find  :  there’s  not  a  hair 13  on’s  head 
but  ’tis  a  Valentine. 

Pro.  Valentine  ! 

Val.  No. 

Pro.  Who  then?  his  spirit? 

Val.  Neither. 

Pro.  What  then? 

Val.  Nothing. 


11  Leave ,  again,  for  cease.  See  page  195,  note  2. 

12  To  fly,  here,  means  the  same  as  by  flying ;  an  instance  of  the  infinitive 
used  gerwidively,  or  like  the  Latin  gerund.  We  have  three  instances  of 
the  same  usage  in  as  many  consecutive  lines,  in  ii.  6 :  "To  leave  my  Julia,” 
—  “  To  love  fair  Silvia,”  —  and  “  To  wrong  my  friend.” 

13  Punning  still.  Launce  is  running  down  the  hare  he  started  at  his 
entrance. 


20  8 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  ill. 


Launce.  Can  nothing  speak  ?  Master,  shall  I  strike  ? 
Pro.  Who  wouldst  thou  strike  ? 

Launce.  Nothing. 

Pro.  Villain,  forbear. 

Launce.  Why,  sir,  I’ll  strike  nothing  :  I  pray  you,  — • 

Pro.  Sirrah,  I  say,  forbear. — Friend  Valentine,  a  word. 
Val.  My  ears  are  stopp’d,  and  cannot  hear  good  news, 

So  much  of  bad  already  hath  possess’d  them. 

Pro.  Then  in  dumb  silence  will  I  bury  mine, 

For  they  are  harsh,  untuneable,  and  bad. 

Val.  Is  Silvia  dead? 

Pro.  No,  Valentine. 

Val.  No  Valentine,  indeed,  for  sacred  Silvia  ! 

Hath  she  forsworn  me  ? 

Pro.  No,  Valentine. 

Val.  No  Valentine,  if  Silvia  have  forsworn  me  ! 

What  is  your  news  ? 

Launce.  Sir,  there  is  a  proclamation  that  you  are  vanish’d 
Pro.  That  thou  art  banished  —  O,  that’s  the  news  !  — 
From  hence,  from  Silvia,  and  from  me  thy  friend. 

Val.  O,  I  have  fed  upon  this  woe  already, 

And  now  excess  of  it  will  make  me  surfeit. 

Doth  Silvia  know  that  I  am  banished  ? 

Pro.  Ay,  ay ;  and  she  hath  offer’d  to  the  doom  — 

Which,  unreversed,  stands  in  effectual  force  — 

A  sea  of  melting  pearl,  which  some  call  tears  : 

Those  at  her  father’s  churlish  feet  she  tender’d ; 

With  them,  upon  her  knees,  her  humble  self; 

Wringing  her  hands,  whose  whiteness  so  became  them 
As  if  but  now  they  waxed  pale  for  woe  : 

But  neither  bended  knees,  pure  hands  held  up, 

Sad  sighs,  deep  groans,  nor  silver-shedding  tears, 

Could  penetrate  her  uncompassionate  sire ; 

But  Valentine,  if  he  be  ta’en,  must  die. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


209 


Besides,  her  intercession  chafed  him  so, 

When  she  for  thy  repeal  was  suppliant, 

That  to  close  prison  he  commanded  her, 

With  many  bitter  threats  of  biding  there. 

Val.  No  more ;  unless  the  next  word  that  thou  speak’st 
Have  some  malignant  power  upon  my  life  : 

If  so,  I  pray  thee,  breathe  it  in  mine  ear, 

As  ending  anthem  of  my  endless  dolour. 

Pro.  Cease  to  lament  for  that  thou  canst  not  help, 

And  study  help  for  that  which  thou  lament’st. 

Time  is  the  nurse  and  breeder  of  all  good. 

Here  if  thou  stay,  thou  canst  not  see  thy  love ; 

Besides,  thy  staying  will  abridge  thy  life. 

Hope  is  a  lover’s  staff ;  walk  hence  with  that, 

And  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts. 

Thy  letters  may  be  here,  though  thou  art  hence ; 

Which,  being  writ  to  me,  shall  be  deliver’d 
Even  in  the  milk-white  bosom  of  thy  love. 

The  time  now  serves  not  to  expostulate  : 

Come,  I’ll  convey  thee  through  the  city-gate ; 

And,  ere  I  part  with  thee,  confer  at  large 
Of  all  that  may  concern  thy  love-affairs. 

As  thou  lovest  Silvia,  though  not  for  thyself, 

Regard  thy  danger,  and  along  with  me. 

Val.  I  pray  thee,  Launce,  an  if  thou  see’st  my  boy, 

Bid  him  make  haste,  and  meet  me  at  the  N6rth-gate. 

Pro.  Go,  sirrah,  find  him  out.  —  Come,  Valentine. 

Val.  O  my  dear  Silvia  !  —  Hapless  Valentine  ! 

[. Exeunt  Valentine  and  Proteus. 
Launce.  I  am  but  a  fool,  look  you ;  and  yet  I  have  the 
wit  to  think  my  master  is  a  kind  of  a  knave  :  but  that’s  all 
one,  if  he  be  but  one  in  love.  He  lives  not  now  that  knows 
me  to  be  in  love  ;  yet  I  am  in  love  ;  but  a  team  of  horse’  shall 
not  pluck  that  from  me ;  nor  who  ’tis  I  love ;  and  yet  ’tis  a 


210 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  III. 


woman  ;  but  what  woman,  I  will  not  tell  myself ;  and  yet  ’tis 
a  milkmaid  ;  yet  ’tis  not  a  maid,  for  she  hath  had  gossips ; 14 
yet  ’tis  a  maid,  for  she  is  her  master’s  maid,  and  serves  for 
wages.  She  hath  more  qualities  than  a  water-spaniel,  — 
which  is  much  in  a  bare 15  Christian.  \_P idling  out  a  paper. ] 
Here  is  the  cate-log  of  her  conditions.  Imprimis :  She  can 
fetch  and  carry.  Why,  a  horse  can  do  no  more  :  nay,  a  horse 
cannot  fetch,  but  only  carry ;  therefore  is  she  better  than  a 
jade.  Item  :  She  can  milk.  Look  you,  a  sweet  virtue  in  a 
maid  with  clean  hands. 


Enter  Speed. 

Speed.  How  now,  Signior  Launce  !  what  news  with  your 
mastership  ? 

Launce.  With  my  master’s  ship  ?  why,  it  is  at  sea. 

Speed.  Well,  your  old  vice  still ;  mistake  the  word.  What 
news,  then,  in  your  paper? 

Launce.  The  blackest  news  that  ever  thou  heard’st. 

Speed.  Why,  man,  how  black? 

Launce.  Why,  as  black  as  ink. 

Speed.  Let  me  read  them. 

Launce.  Fie  on  thee,  jolt-head  !  thou  canst  not  read. 
Speed.  Thou  best ;  I  can. 

Launce.  I  will  try  thee.  Tell  me  this  :  who  begot  thee? 
Speed.  Marry,  the  son  of  my  grandfather. 

Launce.  O  illiterate  loiterer  !  it  was  the  son  of  thy  grand¬ 
mother  :  this  proves  that  thou  canst  not  read. 

Speed.  Come,  fool,  come  ;  try  me  in  thy  paper. 


14  Another  quibble.  Gossips  signifies  not  only  sponsors  in  baptism,  but 
the  talkative  women  who  attend  lyings-in.  How  the  word  acquired  its 
present  meaning,  has  been  stated  before.  See  page  147,  note  22. 

15  Still  quibbling.  Bare  has  two  senses,  mere  and  naked:  Launce  uses 
it  in  both,  opposing  the  naked  person  to  the  water-spaniel  thickly  covered 
with  hair. 


SCENE  I.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


211 


Launce.  There ;  and  Saint  Nicholas  be  thy  speed  ! 16 

Speed.  [Reads]  Item  :  She  ca?i  milk. 

Launce.  Ay,  that  she  can. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  brews  good  ale. 

Launce.  And  thereof  comes  the  proverb,  —  Blessing  of 
your  heart,  you  brew  good  ale. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  can  sew. 

Launce.  That’s  as  much  as  to  say,  Can  she  so  ? 

Speed.  Item  :  She  can  knit. 

Launce.  What  need  a  man  care  for  a  stock  with  a  wench, 
when  she  can  knit  him  a  stock?17 

Speed.  Item  :  She  can  wash  and  scour. 

Launce.  A  special  virtue ;  for  then  she  need  not  be 
wash’d  and  scour’d. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  can  spin. 

Launce.  Then  may  I  set  the  world  on  wheels,  when  she 
can  spin  for  her  living. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  hath  many  nameless  virtues. 

Launce.  That’s  as  much  as  to  say,  bastard  virtues ;  that, 
indeed,  know  not  their  fathers,  and  therefore  have  no  names. 

Speed.  Here  follow  her  vices. 

Launce.  Close  at  the  heels  of  her  virtues. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  is  not  to  be  kiss'd fasting,  in  respect  of 
her  breath. 

Launce.  Well,  that  fault  may  be  mended  with  a  break¬ 
fast.  Read  on. 

16  Saint  Nicholas  had  many  weighty  cares,  but  was  best  known  as  the 
patron-saint  of  scholars,  in  which  character  he  is  here  invoked.  He  is  said  to 
have  gained  this  honour  by  restoring  to  life  three  scholars  whom  a  wicked 
host  had  murdered  while  on  their  way  to  school.  By  the  statutes  of  St. 
Paul’s  school,  London,  the  scholars  are  required  to  attend  divine  service  in 
the  Cathedral  on  the  anniversary  of  Saint  Nicholas.  The  parish  clerks  of 
London,  probably  because  scholars  were  called  clerks,  formed  themselves 
into  a  guild,  with  this  saint  for  their  patron. 

17  The  last  stock  means  stocking ;  the  other,  dower ,  or  stock  of  goods, 
probably. 


212 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  III. 


Speed.  Item  :  She  hath  a  sweet  mouth ,18 

Launce.  That  makes  amends  for  her  sour  breath. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  doth  talk  in  her  sleep. 

Launce.  It’s  no  matter  for  that,  so  she  sleep  not  in  her  talk. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  is  slow  in  words. 

Launce.  O  villain,  that  set  this  down  among  her  vices  ! 
To  be  slow  in  words  is  a  woman’s  only  virtue  :  I  pray  thee, 
out  with’t,  and  place  it  for  her  chief  virtue. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  is  proud. 

Launce.  Out  with  that  too  :  it  was  Eve’s  legacy,  and  can¬ 
not  be  ta’en  from  her. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  hath  no  teeth. 

Launce.  I  care  not  for  that  neither,  because  I  love  crusts. 

Speed.  Item  .*  She  is  curst! 9 

Launce.  Well,  the  best  is,  she  hath  no  teeth  to  bite. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  will  often  praise  her  liquor. 

Launce.  If  her  liquor  be  good,  she  shall :  if  she  will  not, 
I  will ;  for  good  things  should  be  praised. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  is  too  liberal?^ 

Launce.  Of  her  tongue  she  cannot,  for  that’s  writ  down 
she  is  slow  of ;  of  her  purse  she  shall  not,  for  that  I’ll  keep 
shut :  now,  of  another  thing  she  may,  and  that  cannot  I  help. 
Well,  proceed. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit,  and  more  faults 
than  hairs,  and  more  wealth  than  faults. 

Launce.  Stop  there  ;  I’ll  have  her  :  she  was  mine,  and  not 
mine,  twice  or  thrice  in  that  last  article.  Rehearse  that  once 
more. 

Speed.  Item  :  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit,”  — 

18  “  Sweet  mouth "  for  sweet  tooth ;  that  is,  a  great  fondness  for  sweet¬ 
meats  and  dainty  bits.  Launce,  in  his  comment,  chooses  to  take  the  phrase 
literally. 

19  Curst  is  shrewish  or  sharp-tongued  ;  used  of  a  scold. 

20  Too  liberal  here  means  free  beyond  the  allowings  of  modesty.  Liberal 
was  often  used  thus  for  licentious. 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


213 


Launce.  More  hair  than  wit,  —  it  maybe:  I’ll  prove  it. 
The  cover  of  the  salt  hides  the  salt,21  and  therefore  it  is  more 
than  the  salt ;  the  hair  that  covers  the  wit  is  more  than  the 
wit,  for  the  greater  hides  the  less.  What’s  next? 

Speed.  —  and  more  faults  than  hairs ,  — 

Launce.  That’s  monstrous  :  O,  that  that  were  out ! 

Speed.  —  and  more  wealth  than  faults. 

Launce.  Why,  that  word  makes  the  faults  gracious.  Well, 
I’ll  have  her  :  and  if  it  be  a  match,  as  nothing  is  impossible, — 

Speed.  What  then? 

Launce.  Why,  then  will  I  tell  thee,  — that  thy  master  stays 
for  thee  at  the  North-gate. 

Speed.  For  me  ! 

Launce.  For  thee  !  ay;  who  art  thou?  he  hath  stay’d  for 
a  better  man  than  thee. 

Speed.  And  must  I  go  to  him  ? 

Launce.  Thou  must  run  to  him,  for  thou  hast  stay’d  so 
long,  that  going  will  scarce  serve  the  turn. 

Speed.  Why  didst  not  tell  me  sooner  ?  pox  of  your  love- 
letters  !  \_Exit. 

Launce.  Now  will  he  be  swinged  for  reading  my  letter,  — 
an  unmannerly  slave,  that  will  thrust  himself  into  secrets  ! 
I’ll  after,  to  rejoice  in  the  boy’s  correction.  [Exit. 


*  — 

Scene  II.  —  The  Same.  A  Room  in  the  Duke’s  Palace. 
Enter  Duke  and  Thurio. 

Duke.  Sir  Thurio,  fear  not  but  that  she  will  love  you, 

Now  Valentine  is  banish’d  from  her  sight. 

Thu.  Since  his  exile  she  hath  despised  me  most, 
Forsworn  my  company,  and  rail’d  at  me, 

21  The  saltcellar  was  formerly  a  large  piece  of  plate,  with  a  cover  to  keep 
the  salt  clean.  There  was  but  one  on  the  table,  and  that  near  the  head ; 
above  it,  the  seats  of  honour. 


214 


•THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  III. 


That  I  am  desperate  of  obtaining  her. 

Duke.  This  weak  impress  of  love  is  as  a  figure 
Trenched  in  ice,  which  with  an  hour’s 1  heat 
Dissolves  to  water,  and  doth  lose  his  form. 

A  little  time  will  melt  her  frozen  thoughts, 

And  worthless  Valentine  shall  be  forgot.  — 

Enter  Proteus. 

> 

How  now,  Sir  Proteus  !  Is  your  countryman, 

According  to  our  proclamation,  gone  ? 

Pro.  Gone,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.  My  daughter  takes  his  going  grievously. 

Pro.  A  little  time,  my  lord,  will  kill  that  grief. 

Duke.  So  I  believe  ;  but  Thurio  thinks  not  so. 

Proteus,  the  good  conceit  I  hold  of  thee  — 

For  thou  hast  shown  some  sign  of  good  desert  — • 

Makes  me  the  better  to  confer  with  thee. 

Pro.  Longer  than  I  prove  loyal  to  your  Grace 
Let  me  not  live  to  look  upon  your  Grace. 

Duke.  Thou  know’st  how  willingly  I  would  effect 
The  match  between  Sir  Thurio  and  my  daughter. 

Pro.  I  do,  my  lord. 

Duke.  And  also,  I  think,  thou  art  not  ignorant 
How  she  opposes  her  against  my  will. 

Pro.  She  did,  my  lord,  when  Valentine  was  here. 

Duke.  Ay,  and  perversely  she  pers£vers  so. 

What  might  we  do  to  make  the  girl  forget 
The  love  of  Valentine,  and  love  Sir  Thurio? 

Pro.  The  best  way  is  to  slander  Valentine 
With  falsehood,  cowardice,  and  poor  descent,  — 

Three  things  that  women  highly  hold  in  hate. 

Duke.  Ay,  but  she’ll  think  that  it  is  spoke  in  hate. 

1  Hour  is  here  a  dissylable.  See  page  135,  note  3.  —  Trenched  is  cut  or 
carved. 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


215 


Pro.  Ay,  if  his  enemy  deliver  it : 

Therefore  it  must  with  circumstance  2  be  spoken 
By  one  whom  she  esteemeth  as  his  friend. 

Duke.  Then  you  must  undertake  to  slander  him. 

Pro.  And  that,  my  lord,  I  shall  be  loth  to  do  : 

’Tis  an  ill  office  for  a  gentleman, 

Especially  against  his  very3  friend. 

Duke.  Where  your  good  word  cannot  advantage  him, 
Your  slander  never  can  endamage  him  : 

Therefore  the  office  is  indifferent, 

Being  entreated  to  it  by  your  friend. 

Pro.  You  have  prevail’d,  my  lord  :  if  I  can  do  it 
By  aught  that  I  can  speak  in  his  dispraise, 

She  shall  not  long  continue  love  to  him. 

But  say,  this  wean  her  love  from  Valentine, 

It  follows  not  that  she  will  love  Sir  Thurio. 

Thu.  Therefore,  as  you  unwind  her  love  from  him, 

Lest  it  should  ravel  and  be  good  to  none, 

You  must  provide  to  bottom4  it  on  me ; 

Which  must  be  done  by  praising  me  as  much 
As  you  in  worth  dispraise  Sir  Valentine. 

Duke.  And,  Proteus,  we  dare  trust  you  in  this  kind, 
Because  we  know,  on  Valentine’s  report, 

You  are  already  Love’s  firm  votary, 

And  cannot  soon  revolt  and  change  your  mind. 

Upon  this  warrant  shall  you  have  access 
Where  you  with  Silvia  may  confer  at  large ; 

For  she  is  lumpish,  heavy,  melancholy, 

And,  for  your  friend’s  sake,  will  be  glad  of  you  ; 

2  Circumstance  for  circumstantial  detail ;  that  is,  instances  or  facts  al¬ 
leged  in  proof. 

3  Very  in  the  Latin  sense  of  verus ;  true.  So  one  of  Massinger’s  plays 
is  entitled  A  Very  Woman. 

4  Bottom  is  the  old  housewife’s  term  for  that  on  which  a  ball  of  yarn  or 
thread  is  wound. 


21 6 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  III. 


When  you  may  temper  her,  by  your  persuasion, 
To  hate  young  Valentine,  and  love  my  friend. 

Pro.  As  much  as  I  can  do,  I  will  effect :  — 
But  you,  Sir  Thurio,  are  not  sharp  enough ; 

You  must  lay  lime5  to  tangle  her  desires 
By  wailful  sonnets,  whose  composed  rhymes 
Should  be  full-fraught  with  serviceable  vows. 
Duke.  Ay, 

Much  is  the  force  of  Heaven-bred  poesy. 


Pro.  Say,  that  upon  the  altar  of  her  beauty 


You  sacrifice  your  tears,  your  sighs,  your  heart : 

Write  till  your  ink  be  dry,  and  with  your  tears 
Moist  it  again  ;  and  frame  some  feeling  lines 
That  may  discover  such  integrity  :  6 
For  Orpheus’  lute  was  strung  with  poets’  sinews ; 

Whose  golden  touch  could  soften  steel  and  stones. 

Make  tigers  tame,  and  huge  leviathans 
Forsake  unsounded  deeps  to  dance  on  sands. 

After  your  dire-lamenting  elegies, 

Visit  by  night  your  lady’s  chamber-window 
With  some  sweet  consort ;  7  to  their  instruments 
Tune  a  deploring  dump  :  8  the  night’s  dead  silence 
Will  well  become  such  sweet-complaining  grievance. 

This,  or  else  nothing,  will  inherit  her.9 

Duke.  This  discipline  shows  thou  hast  been  in  love. 

5  Lime,  or  bird-lime,  was  originally  a  sticky  substance,  spread  where 
birds  were  apt  to  light,  so  as  to  hold  them  by  the  feet ;  but  the  word  came 
to  be  used  for  any  sort  of  snare. 

6  Such  sincerity  as  is  shown  by  impassioned  writing.  Integrity  in  its 
original  sense,  —  the  sense  of  entireness  or  wholeheartedness. 

7  Consort,  according  to  Bullokar  and  Phillips,  meant  “  a  set  or  company 
of  musicians.” 

8  Dump  is  an  old  term  for  a  mournful  elegy. 

9  To  inherit  was  sometimes  used  for  to  get  possession  of,  without  any  idea 
of  inheritance.  So  Milton,  in  his  Comus,  has  “  disinherit  Chaos” ;  meaning 
simply  to  dispossess  it. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


217 


Thu.  And  thy  advice  this  night  I’ll  put  in  practice. 
Therefore,  sweet  Proteus,  my  direction-giver, 

Let  us  into  the  city  presently 

To  sort10  some  gentlemen  well  skill’d  in  music : 

I  have  a  sonnet  that  will  serve  the  turn 
To  give  the  onset  to  thy  good  advice. 

Duke.  About  it,  gentlemen. 

Pro.  We’ll  wait  upon  your  Grace  till  after  supper, 

And  afterward  determine  our  proceedings. 

Duke.  Even  now  about  it ;  I  will  pardon  you.11  \_Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I.  —  A  Foi'est  near  Milan. 

Enter  certain  Outlaws. 

1  Out.  Fellows,  stand  fast ;  I  see  a  passenger. 

2  Out.  If  there  be  ten,  shrink  not,  but  down  with  ’em. 

Enter  Valentine  and  Speed. 

3  Out.  Stand,  sir,  and  throw  us  that  you  have  about  ye  : 

If  not,  we’ll  make  you  sit,  and  rifle  you.  "■ 

Speed.  O,  sir,  we  are  undone  !  these  are  the  villains 
That  all  the  travellers  do  fear  so  much. 

Val.  My  friends,  — 

1  Out.  That’s  not  so,  sir,  —  we  are  your  enemies. 

2  Out.  Peace  !  we’ll  hear  him. 

3  Out.  Ay,  by  my  beard,  will  we  ; 

For  he’s  a  proper1  man. 

10  To  sort  was  much  used  for  to  choose  or  select. 

11  Will  excuse  you ;  release  you  from  attending  me. 

1  Proper  was  used  for  handsome ,  well-proportioned.  Valentine  is  a  man 
of  fine  presence. 


21 8  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  ACT  IV. 

Va /.  Then  know  that  I  have  little  wealth  to  lose ; 

A  man  I  am  cross’d  with  adversity : 

My  riches  are  these  poor  habiliments, 

Of  which,  if  you  should  here  disfurnish  me, 

You  take  the  sum  and  substance  that  I  have. 

2  Out.  Whither  travel  you  ? 

Vat.  To  Verona. 
i  Out.  Whence  came  you  ? 

Vat.  From  Milan. 

j  Out.  Have  you  long  sojourn’d  there  ? 

Vat.  Some  sixteen  months  ;  and  longer  might  have  stay’d, 
If  crooked  fortune  had  not  thwarted  me. 

1  Out.  What,  were  you  banish’d  thence  ? 

Vat.  I  was. 

2  Out.  For  what  offence? 

Vat.  For  that  which  now  torments  me  to  rehearse  : 

I  kill’d  a  man,  whose  death  I  much  repent ; 

But  yet  I  slew  him  manfully  in  fight, 

Without  false  vantage  or  base  treachery. 

1  Out.  Why,  ne’er  repent  it,  if  it  were  done  so. 

But  were  you  banish’d  for  so  small  a  fault  ? 

Vat.  I  was,  and  held  me  glad  of  such  a  doom. 

2  Out.  Have  you  the  tongues? 

Vat.  My  youthful  travel  therein  made  me  happy, 

Or  else  I  often  had  been  miserable. 

j  Out.  By  the  bare  scalp  of  Robin  Hood’s  fat  friar,2 
This  fellow  were  a  king  for  our  wild  faction  ! 

1  Out.  We’ll  have  him  :  —  Sir,  a  word. 

Speed.  Master,  be  one  of  them  ; 

It  is  an  honourable  kind  of  thievery. 

2  Friar  Tuck,  the  chaplain  of  Robin  Hood’s  merry  crew;  that  ancient 
specimen  of  clerical  boldness  and  plumpness  and  jollity;  of  whom  Drayton 
says, 


Of  Tuck,  the  merry  friar,  which  many  a  sermon  made 
In  praise  of  Robin  Hood,  his  outlaws,  and  his  trade. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


219 


Val.  Peace,  villain  ! 

2  Out.  Tell  us  this  :  have  you  any  thing  to  take  to  ? 
Val.  Nothing  but  my  fortune. 

J  Out.  Know,  then,  that  some  of  us  are  gentlemen, 
Such  as  the  fury  of  ungovern’d  youth 
Thrust  from  the  company  of  awful  men  : 3 
Myself  was  from  Verona  banished 
For  practising  to  steal  away  a  lady, 

An  heir,  and  near-allied  unto  the  Duke. 

2  Out And  I  from  Mantua,  for  a  gentleman, 

Who,  in  my  mood,4  I  stabb’d  unto  the  heart. 

1  Out.  And  I  for  such -like  petty  crimes  as  these. 

But  to  the  purpose,  —  for  we  cite  our  faults, 

That  they  may  hold  excused  our  lawless  lives ; 

And  partly,  seeing  you  are  beautified 
With  goodly  shape,  and  by  your  own  report 
A  linguist,  and  a  man  of  such  perfection 
As  we  do  in  our  quality 5  much  want,  — 

2  Out.  Indeed,  because  you  are  a  banish’d  man, 
Therefore,  above  the  rest,  we  parley  to  you  : 

Are  you  content  to  be  our  general  ? 

To  make  a  virtue  of  necessity, 

And  live,  as  we  do,  in  this  wilderness  ? 

3  Out.  What  say’st  thou?  wilt  thou  be  of  our  consdrt? 
Say  ay,  and  be  the  captain  of  us  all : 

We’ll  do  thee  homage  and  be  ruled  by  thee, 

Love  thee  as  our  commander  and  our  king. 


3  “  Awful  men  ”  are  men  full  of  awe  for  just  authority ;  men  who  rever¬ 
ence  the  laws  and  usages  of  society.  So  Milton,  in  his  Hymn  of  the 
Nativity  : 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 

As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovereign  Lord  was  by. 

4  In  a  fit  of  anger  or  resentment.  A  moody  man  is  still  a  man  liable  to 
storms  of  passion. 

3  Quality  here  is  profession  or  occupation.  So  in  Hamlet ,  ii.  2:  “Will 
they  pursue  the  quality  no  longer  than  they  can  sing  ?  ” 


220 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  IV. 


1  Out.  But,  if  thou  scorn  our  courtesy,  thou  chest. 

2  Out.  Thou  shalt  not  live  to  brag  what  we  have  offer’d. 
Val.  I  take  your  offer,  and  will  live  with  you, 

Provided  that  you  do  no  outrages 
On  silly6  women  or  poor  passengers. 

j  Out.  No,  we  detest  such  vile  base  practices. 

Come,  go  with  us,  we’ll  bring  thee  to  our  cave, 

And  show  thee  all  the  treasure  we  have  got ; 

Which,  with  ourselves,  shall  rest  at  thy  dispose.  [. Exeunt \ 


Scene  II.  —  Milan.  The  Court  of  the  Duke’s  Palace . 

Enter  Proteus. 

Pro.  Already  have  I  been  false  to  Valentine, 

And  now  I  must  6e  as  unjust  to  Thurio. 

Under  the  colour  of  commending  him, 

I  have  access  my  own  love  to  prefer : 

But  Silvia  is  too  fair,  too  true,  too  holy,1 
To  be  corrupted  with  my  worthless  gifts. 

When  I  protest  true  loyalty  to  her, 

She  twits  me  with  my  falsehood  to  my  friend ; 

When  to  her  beauty  I  commend  my  vows, 

She  bids  me  think  how  I  have  been  forsworn 
In  breaking  faith  with  Julia  whom  I  loved  : 

And  notwithstanding  all  her  sudden  quips,2 
The  least  whereof  would  quell  a  lover’s  hope, 

6  Silly  here  is  a  word  of  tenderness,  not  of  reproach ;  as  denoting  a 
character  of  innocence  and  simplicity.  So,  in  Twelfth  Night ,  ii.  4,  we  have 
silly  sooth  for  simple  truth.  Such  appears  to  be  the  primitive  sense  of  the 
word. 

1  Holy  in  the  sense  of  upright  and  pure ;  a  frequent  usage  of  the  word 
in  Shakespeare. 

2  A  quip  is  a  biting  taunt  or  retort.  So  in  Much  Ado ,  ii.  3 :  “  Shall 
quips  and  sentences,  and  these  paper-bullets  of  the  brain,  awe  a  man  from 
the  career  of  his  humour  ?  ” 


SCENE  II. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


221 


Yet,  spaniel-like,  the  more  she  spurns  my  love, 

The  more  it  grows,  and  fawneth  on  her  still. 

But  here  comes  Thurio  :  now  must  we  to  her  window, 

And  give  some  evening  music  to  her  ear. 

Enter  Thurio  and  Musicians. 

Thu.  How  now,  Sir  Proteus  !  are  you  crept  before  us  ? 
Pro.  Ay,  gentle  Thurio  ;  for  you  know  that  love 
Will  creep  in  service  where  it  cannot  go. 

Thu.  Ay,  but  I  hope,  sir,  that  you  love  not  here. 

Pro.  Sir,  but  I  do  ;  or  else  I  would  be  hence. 

Thu.  Who?  Silvia? 

Pro.  Ay,  Silvia,  —  for  your  sake. 

Thu.  I  thank  you  for  your  own.  —  Now,  Gentlemen, 

Let’s  tune,  and  to  it  lustily  awhile. 

Enter ,  at  a  distance ,  Host,  and  Julia  in  boy's  clothes. 

Host.  Now,  my  young  guest,  methinks  you’re  allicholy  : 

I  pray  you,  why  is  it  ? 

Jut.  Marry,  mine  host,  because  I  cannot  be  merry. 

Host.  Come,  we’ll  have  you  merry  :  I’ll  bring  you  where 
you  shall  hear  music,  and  see  the  gentleman  that  you  ask’d  for. 
Jut.  But  shall  I  hear  him  speak? 

Host.  Ay,  that  you  shall. 

Jut.  That  will  be  music.  [Music  plays. 

Host.  Hark,  hark  ! 

Jul.  Is  he  among  these  ? 

Host.  Ay  :  but  peace  !  let’s  hear  ’em. 

Song. 

Who  is  Silvia  ?  what  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her  ? 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she  ; 

The  Heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 

That  she  might  admired  be. 


222  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  act  IV. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair ,  — 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness  ? 

Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair , 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness  ; 

And ,  being  help'd ,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing , 

That  Silvia  is  excelling; 

She  excels  each  7nortal  thing 
Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling  : 

To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

Host.  How  now  !  you’re  sadder  than  you  were  before  : 
How  do  you,  man  ?  the  music  likes  you  not.3 

Jul.  You  mistake  ;  the  musician  likes  me  not. 

Host.  Why,  my  pretty  youth? 

Jul.  He  plays  false,  father. 

Host.  How  ?  out  of  tune  on  the  strings  ? 

Jul.  Not  so ;  but  yet  so  false  that  he  grieves  my  very 
heart-strings. 

Host.  You  have  a  quick  ear. 

Jul.  Ay,  I  would  I  were  deaf ;  it  makes  me  have  a  slow 
heart. 

Host.  I  perceive  you  delight  not  in  music. 

Jul.  Not  a  whit,  — when  it  jars  so. 

Host.  Hark,  what  fine  change  is  in  the  music  ! 

Jul.  Ay,  that  change  is  the  spite. 

Host.  You  would  have  them  always  play  but  one  thing? 

Jul.  I  would  always  have  one  play  but  one  thing. 

But,  host,  doth  this  Sir  Proteus  that  we  talk  on 
Often  resort  unto  this  gentlewoman  ? 

8  That  is,  “  the  music  pleases  you  not,”  or,  “  you  like  not  the  music  " ; 
an  old  form  of  speech  occurring  frequently  in  Shakespeare,  and  by  no 
means  peculiar  to  him.  In  the  next  line  Julia  plays  upon  the  word,  using 
it  in  its  ordinary  sense. 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  223 

Host.  I  tell  you  what  Launce,  his  man,  told  me,  —  he 
loved  her  out  of  all  nick.4 

Jul.  Where  is  Launce? 

Host.  Gone  to  seek  his  dog ;  which  to-morrow,  by  his 
master’s  command,  he  must  carry  for  a  present  to  his  Ldy. 

Jul.  Peace  !  stand  aside  :  the  company  parts. 

Pro.  Sir  Thurio,  fear  not  you  :  I  will  so  plead, 

That  you  shall  say  my  cunning  drift  excels. 

Thu.  Where  meet  we  ? 

Pro.  At  Saint  Gregory’s  well.5 

Thu .  Farewell. 

\_Exeunt  Thurio  and  Musicians. 

Silvia  appears  above,  at  her  window. 

Pro.  Madam,  good  even  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.  I  thank  you  for  your  music,  gentlemen. 

Who’s  that  that  spake  ? 

Pro.  One,  lady,  if  you  knew  his  pure  heart’s  truth, 

You’d  quickly  learn  to  know  him  by  his  voice. 

Sil.  Sir  Proteus,  as  I  take  it. 

Pro.  Sir  Proteus,  gentle  lady,  and  your  servant. 

Sil.  What  is  your  will  ? 

Pro.  That  I  may  compass  yours. 

Sil.  You  have  your  wish  ;  my  will  is  even  this,  — 

That  presently  you  hie  you  home  to  bed. 

4  “  Out  of  all  nick  "  is  beyond  all  reckoning.  Accounts  were  formerly  kept 
by  cutting  nicks  or  notches  in  a  tally-stick.  So  in  A  Woman  never  Vexed  : 
“  I  have  carried  these  tallies  at  my  girdle  seven  years  together ;  for  I  did 
ever  love  to  deal  honestly  in  the  nick.”  It  is  not  so  very  long  since  this 
method  was  laid  aside  in  the  English  Exchequer ;  doubtless  because  the 
accounts  grew  to  be  out  of  all  nick. 

5  This  was  probably  one  of  the  “  holy  wells  ”  to  which  popular  belief 
ascribed  mysterious  virtues,  and  which  were  visited  something  as  our  fash¬ 
ionable  watering-places  are,  though  perhaps  with  different  feelings.  I  hold 
in  memory  a  very  dear  and  saintly  man  who  used  to  derive  his  name  from 
such  a  well,  with  a  cross  to  mark  the  spot, —  Crosse  Welle. 


224 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  IV. 


Thou  subtle,  perjured,  false,  disloyal  man  ! 

Think’st  thou  I  am  so  shallow,  so  conceitless,6 
To  be  seduced  by  thy  flattery, 

That  hast  deceived  so  many  with  thy  vows  ? 

Return,  return,  and  make  thy  love  amends. 

For  me,  — by  this  pale  Queen  of  night  I  swear,  — 

I  am  so  far  from  granting  thy  request, 

That  I  despise  thee  for  thy  wrongful  suit ; 

And  by-and-by  intend  to  chide  myself 
Even  for  this  time  I  spend  in  talking  to  thee. 

Pro.  I  grant,  sweet  love,  that  I  did  love  a  lady ; 

But  she  is  dead. 

Jul.  [Aside.']  ’Twere  false,  if  I  should  speak  it; 

For  I  am  sure  she  is  not  buried. 

Sil.  Say  that  she  be  ;  yet  Valentine  thy  friend 
Survives  ;  to  whom,  thyself  art  witness, 

I  am  betroth’d  :  and  art  thou  not  ashamed 
To  wrong  him  with  thy  importunacy? 

Pro.  I  likewise  hear  that  Valentine  is  dead. 

Sil.  And  so  suppose  am  I ;  for  in  his  grave 
Assure  thyself  my  love  is  buried. 

Pro.  Sweet  lady,  let  me  rake  it  from  the  earth. 

Sil.  Go  to  thy  lady’s  grave,  and  call  hers  thence ; 

Or,  at  the  least,  in  hers  sepulchre  thine. 

Jul.  [Aside.]  He  heard  not  that. 

Pro.  Madam,  if  your  heart  be  so  obdurate, 

Vouchsafe  me  yet  your  picture  for  my  love, 

The  picture  that  is  hanging  in  your  chamber ; 

To  that  I’ll  speak,  to  that  I’ll  sigh  and  weep  : 

For,  since  the  substance  of  your  perfect  self 
Is  else  devoted,  I  am  but  a  shadow ; 

And  to  your  shadow  will  I  make  true  love. 

6  The  Poet  always  uses  conceit  in  a  good  sense,  for  conception,  thought, 
understanding,  &c.  So  that  conceitless  has  a  bad  sense,  void  of  judgment. 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


225 


Jul.  \_Aside.~\  If  ’twere  a  substance,  you  would,  sure,  de¬ 
ceive  it, 

And  make  it  but  a  shadow,  as  I  am. 

Sil.  I’m  very  loth  to  be  your  idol,  sir ; 

But,  since  your  falsehood  shall  become  you  well 
To  worship  shadows  and  adore  false  shapes, 

Send  to  me  in  the  morning,  and  I’ll  send  it : 

And  so,  good  rest. 

Pro.  As  wretches  have  o’ernight 

That  wait  for  execution  in  the  morn. 

\_Exeunt  Proteus,  and  Silvia  above. 
Jul.  Host,  will  you  go  ? 

Host.  By  my  halidom,7  I  was  fast  asleep. 

Jul.  Pray  you,  where  lies  Sir  Proteus  ? 

Host.  Marry,  at  my  house.  Trust  me,  I  think  ’tis  almost 
day. 

Jul.  Not  so  ;  but  it  hath  been  the  longest  night 
That  e’er  I  watch’d,  and  the  most  heaviest.  [. Exeunt . 

Enter  Eglamour. 

Egl.  This  is  the  hour  that  Madam  Silvia 
Entreated  me  to  call  and  know  her  mind  : 

There’s  some  great  matter  she’d  employ  me  in. — 

Madam,  madam  ! 

Silyia  re-appears  above ,  at  her  window. 

Sil.  Who  calls  ? 

Egl.  Your  servant  and  your  friend ; 

One  that  attends  your  ladyship’s  command. 

Sil.  Sir  Eglamour,  a  thousand  times  good  morrow. 

Egl.  As  many,  worthy  lady,  to  yourself. 

7  Halidom ,  says  Minsheu,  1617,  is  “  an  old  word  used  by  old  country¬ 
women,  by  manner  of  swearing.”  Nares  derives  it  from  holy  and  dom,  like 
kingdotn.  So  that  the  oath  is  much  the  same  as  “  by  my  faith." 


226 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  IV. 


According  to  your  ladyship’s  impose,8 
I  am  thus  early  come  to  know  what  service 
It  is  your  pleasure  to  command  me  in. 

Sil.  O  Eglamour,  thou  art  a  gentleman,  — 

Think  not  I  flatter,  for  I  swear  I  do  not,  — 

Valiant  and  wise,  remorseful,9  well-accomplish’d  : 
Thou  art  not  ignorant  what  dear  good-will 
I  bear  unto  the  banish’d  Valentine ; 

Nor  how  my  father  would  enforce  me  marry 
Vain  Thurio,  whom  my  very  soul  abhors. 

Thyself  hast  loved ;  and  I  have  heard  thee  say 
No  grief  did  ever  come  so  near  thy  heart 
As  when  thy  lady  and  thy  true  love  died, 

Upon  whose  grave  thou  vow’dst  pure  chastity. 

Sir  Eglamour,  I  would  to  Valentine, 

To  Mantua,  where  I  hear  he  makes  abode ; 

And,  for  the  ways  are  dangerous  to  pass, 

I  do  desire  thy  worthy  company, 

Upon  whose  faith  and  honour  I  repose. 

Urge  not  my  father’s  anger,  Eglamour, 

But  think  upon  my  grief,  —  a  lady’s  grief,  — 

And  on  the  justice  of  my  flying  hence, 

To  keep  me  from  a  most  unholy  match, 

Which  Heaven  and  fortune  still  reward  with  plagues. 
I  do  desire  thee,  even  from  a  heart 
As  full  of  sorrows  as  the  sea  of  sands, 

To  bear  me  company,  and  go  with  me  : 

If  not,  to  hide  what  I  have  said  to  thee, 

That  I  may  venture  to  depart  alone. 


8  Impose  is  merely  a  shortened  form  of  imposition ,  meaning  command  or 
injunction. 

9  Remorseful  is  pitiful,  compassionate.  The  Poet  almost  always  uses 
remorse  in  the  same  sense, —  a  sense  now  obsolete  except  in  remorse¬ 
less. 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


22  7 


Egl.  Madam,  I  pity  much  your  grievances  ; 10 
Which  since  I  know  they  virtuously  are  placed, 

I  give  consent  to  go  along  with  you ; 

Recking  11  as  little  what  betideth  me 
As  much  I  wish  all  good  befortune  you. 

When  will  you  go  ? 

Sil.  This  evening  coming. 

Egl.  Where  shall  I  meet  you  ? 

Si l.  At  Friar  Patrick’s  cell, 

Where  I  intend  holy  confession. 

Egl.  I  will  not  fail  your  ladyship.  Good  morrow, 

Gentle  lady. 

Sil.  Good  morrow,  kind  Sir  Eglamour. 

\_Exeunt  Eglamour,  and  Silvia  above. 

Enter  Launce,  with  his  Dog. 

Lannce.  When  a  man’s  servant  shall  play  the  cur  with  him, 
look  you,  it  goes  hard  :  one  that  I  brought  up  of  a  puppy ; 
one  that  I  saved  from  drowning,  when  three  or  four  of  his 
blind  brothers  and  sisters  went  to  it !  I  have  taught  him  — 
even  as  one  would  say  precisely,  Thus  I  would  teach  a  dog. 
I  was  sent  to  deliver  him  as  a  present  to  Mistress  Silvia  from 
my  master ;  and  I  came  no  sooner  into  the  dining-chamber, 
but  he  steps  me  to  her  trencher,12  and  steals  her  capon’s  leg. 

10  Grievances  for  griefs.  So  the  Poet  very  often  has  griefs  for  grievances. 
—  In  the  next  line  we  have  a  doubling  of  the  subject,  which  and  they. 
Shakespeare,  in  common  with  other  writers  of  the  time,  Bacon  among 
them,  has  many  such ;  perhaps  resulting  from  an  attempt  to  introduce  the 
Latin  idiom  of  relative  clauses  where  the  English  does  not  rightly  admit  of 
that  idiom. 

11  Recking  is  caring  or  minding ;  a  sense  still  current  in  reckless.  So  in 
Hamlet ,  i.  3  :  “  And  recks  not  his  own  read  ;  ”  that  is,  regards  not  his  own 
lesson. 

12  Trenchers  were  used  at  the  tables  of  the  highest  noblemen  in  Shake¬ 
speare’s  day,  and  were  even  thought  fitting  for  the  king’s  dining-room  in 
the  reign  of  Henry  VIII. 


228 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  IV. 


O,  ’tis  a  foul  thing  when  a  cur  cannot  keep 13  himself  in  all 
companies  !  I  would  have,  as  one  should  say,  one  that  takes 
upon  him  to  be  a  dog  indeed,  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  dog  at  all 
things.  If  I  had  not  had  more  wit  than  he,  to  take  a  fault 
upon  me  that  he  did,  I  think  verily  he  had  been  hang’d  for’t ; 
sure  as  I  live,  he  had  suffer’d  for’t :  you  shall  judge.  He 
thrusts  me  himself  into  the  company  of  three  or  four  gentle¬ 
manlike  dogs,  under  the  Duke’s  table  :  he  had  not  been  there 
(bless  the  mark  !)  a  pissing  while,  but  all  the  chamber  smelt 
him.  Out  with  the  dog ,  says  one  ;  What  cur  is  that  ?  says 
another ;  Whip  him  out ,  says  the  third  ;  Hang  him  up ,  says 
the  Duke.  I,  having  been  acquainted  with  the  smell  before, 
knew  it  was  Crab ;  and  goes  me  to  the  fellow  that  whips  the 
dogs  :  Friend ’  quoth  I, you  mean  to  whip  the  dog?  Ay,  marry, 
do  1 ,  quoth  he.  You  do  him  the  more  wrong,  quoth  I ;  'twas 
/  did  the  thing  you  wot  of.  He  makes  me  no  more  ado,  but 
whips  me  out  of  the  chamber.  How  many  masters  would  do 
this  for  their  servant?  Nay,  I’ll  be  sworn,  I  have  sat  in 
the  stocks  for  puddings  he  hath  stolen,  otherwise  he  had 
been  executed ;  I  have  stood  on  the  pillory  for  geese  he  hath 
kill’d,  otherwise  he  had  suffer’d  for’t. — Thou  think’st  not  of 
this  now  !  Nay,  I  remember  the  trick  you  served  me  when 
I  took  my  leave  of  Madam  Silvia.  Did  not  I  bid  thee  still 
mark  me,  and  do  as  I  do  ?  when  didst  thou  see  me  heave  up 
my  leg,  and  make  water  against  a  gentlewoman’s  farthingale  ? 
didst  thou  ever  see  me  do  such  a  trick? 

Re-enter  Proteus,  and  Julia  in  boy's  clothes. 

Pro.  Sebastian  is  thy  name  ?  I  like  thee  well, 

And  will  employ  thee  in  some  service  presently. 

Jut.  In  what  you  please  :  I  will  do  what  I  can. 

Pro.  I  hope  thou  wilt. —  [To  Launce.]  How  now,  you 
whoreson  peasant ! 

Where  have  you  been  these  two  days  loitering? 

13  Keep  for  contain,  hold  his  water. 


Launce.  " - Nay,  I  remember  the  trick  you  served  me  when  I  took  my  leave 

of  Madam  Silvia,  Did  not  I  bid  thee  still  mark  me,  and  do  as  I  do  ?  " 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  Act  4,  Scene  2. 


Page  228. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


229 


Launce .  Marry,  sir,  I  carried  Mistress  Silvia  the  dog  you 
bade  me. 

Pro.  And  what  says  she  to  my  little  jewel? 

Launce.  Marry,  she  says  your  dog  was  a  cur,  and  tells  you 
currish  thanks  is  good  enough  for  such  a  present. 

Pro.  But  she  received  my  dog? 

Launce.  No,  indeed,  did  she  not :  here  have  I  brought 
him  back  again. 

Pro.  What,  didst  thou  offer  her  this  cur  from  me  ? 

Launce.  Ay,  sir  ;  the  other  squirrel  was  stolen  from  me  by 
the  hangman  boys 14  in  the  market-place  :  and  then  I  offer’d 
her  mine  own,  —  who  is  a  dog  as  big  as  ten  of  yours,  and 
therefore  the  gift  the  greater. 

Pro.  Go  get  thee  hence,  and  find  my  dog  again, 

Or  ne’er  return  again  into  my  sight. 

Away,  I  say  !  stay’st  thou  to  vex  me  here  ? 

A  slave,  that  still  an  end 15  turns  me  to  shame  !  — 

Sebastian,  I  have  entertained  16  thee,  \_Exit  Launce: 

Partly  that  I  have  need  of  such  a  youth, 

That  can  with  some  discretion  do  my  business, 

For  ’tis  no  trusting  to  yond  foolish  lout ; 

But  chiefly  for  thy  face  and  thy  behaviour, 

Which  —  if  my  augury  deceive  me  not — 

Witness  good  bringing  up,  fortune,  and  truth  : 

Therefore  know  thou,  for  this  I  entertain  thee. 

Go  presently,  and  take  this  ring  with  thee, 

Deliver  it  to  Madam  Silvia  : 

She  loved  me  well  deliver’d  it  to  me. 

14  “  Ha,7igman  boys  ”  is  rascally  boys  ;  the  word  hangman  having  come 
to  be  used  as  a  general  term  of  reproach. 

15  “  Still  an  end  ”  is  an  old  colloquial  phrase,  meaning  continually  or 
perpetually. 

16  Entertained  here  is  employed  or  taken  into  service ;  a  frequent  usage 
with  the  Poet.  So  in  ii.  4,  of  this  play:  “Sweet  lady,  entertain  him  for 
your  servant.” 


230 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  IV. 


Jul.  It  seems  you  loved  not  her,  to  leave  her  token.17 
She’s  dead,  belike  ? 

Pro.  Not  so  ;  I  think  she  lives. 

Jul.  Alas  ! 

Pro.  Why  dost  thou  cry,  Alas? 

JuL  I  cannot  choose 

But  pity  her. 

Pro.  Wherefore  shouldst  thou  pity  her? 

Jul.  Because  methinks  that  she  loved  you  as  well 
As  you  do  love  your  lady  Silvia  : 

She  dreams  on  him  that  has  forgot  her  love ; 

You  dote  on  her  that  cares  not  for  your  love. 

Tis  pity  love  should  be  so  contrary ; 

And  thinking  on  it  makes  me  cry,  Alas  / 

Pro.  Well,  well,  give  her  that  ring,  and  therewithal 
This  letter  ;  that’s  her  chamber  :  tell  my  lady 
I  claim  the  promise  for  her  heavenly  picture. 

Your  message  done,  hie  home  unto  my  chamber, 

Where  thou  shalt  find  me  sad  and  solitary.  \_Exit. 

Jul.  How  many  women  would  do  such  a  message  ? 

Alas,  poor  Proteus  !  thou  hast  entertain’d 
A  fox  to  be  the  shepherd  of  thy  lambs  :  — 

Alas,  poor  fool !  why  do  I  pity  him, 

That  with  his  very  heart  despiseth  me  ? 

Because  he  loves  her,  he  despiseth  me ; 

Because  I  love  him,  I  must  pity  him. 

This  ring  I  gave  him  when  he  parted  from  me, 

To  bind  him  to  remember  my  good  will : 

And  now  am  I  —  unhappy  messenger  — 

To  plead  for  that  which  I  would  not  obtain ; 

17  That  is,  “  from  your  parting  with  her  token.”  Another  instance  of  the 
infinitive  used  gerundively.  So  again,  further  on  in  this  scene :  “  To  think 
upon  her  woes  I  do  protest,”  &c.  Here  we  should  naturally  say  in  think¬ 
ing.  See,  also,  page  207,  note  12. 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


231 


To  carry  that  which  I  would  have  refused  ; 

To  praise  his  faith  which  I  would  have  dispraised. 

I  am  my  master’s  true  confirmed  love ; 

But  cannot  be  true  servant  to  my  master, 

Unless  I  prove  false  traitor  to  myself. 

Yet  will  I  woo  for  him ;  but  yet  so  coldly 

As,  Heaven  it  knows,  I  would  not  have  him  speed.  — 

Enter  Silvia  below ,  attended. 

Gentlewoman,  good  day  !  I  pray  you,  be  my  mean 
To  bring  me  where  to  speak  with  Madam  Silvia. 

Sil.  What  would  you  with  her,  if  that  I  be  she  ? 

Jal.  If  you  be  she,  I  do  entreat  your  patience 
To  hear  me  speak  the  message  I  am  sent  on. 

Sil.  From  whom? 

Jul.  From  my  master,  Sir  Proteus,  madam. 

Sil.  O,  —  he  sends  you  for  a  picture  ? 

Jul.  Ay,  madam. 

Sil.  Ursula,  bring  my  picture  there.  — 

\_The picture  is  brought. 
Go  give  your  master  this  :  tell  him,  from  me, 

One  Julia,  that  his  changing  thoughts  forget, 

Would  better  fit  his  chamber  than  this  shadow. 

Jul.  Madam,  please  you  peruse  this  letter  :  — 

[  Gives  a  letter. 

Pardon  me,  madam;  I  have  unadvised18 
Deliver’d  you  a  paper  that  I  should  not : 

This  is  the  letter  to  your  ladyship.  [  Gives  another. 

Sil.  I  pray  thee,  let  me  look  on  that  again. 

Jul.  It  may  not  be  ;  good  madam,  pardon  me. 

Sil.  There,  hold  :  [  Gives  back  the  first  letter. 

I  will  not  look  upon  your  master’s  lines  : 

18  Unadvised  for  unadvisedly ,  and  in  the  sense  of  inconsiderately.  See 
page  203,  note  5. 


232 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  IV. 


I  know  they’re  stuff’d  with  protestations, 

And  full  of  new-found  oaths  ;  which  he  will  break 

As  easily  as  I  do  tear  this  paper.  [  Tears  the  second  letter . 

Jnl.  Madam,  he  sends  your  ladyship  this  ring. 

Sil.  The  more  shame  for  him  that  he  sends  it  me ; 

For  I  have  heard  him  say  a  thousand  times 
His  Julia  gave  it  him  at  his  departure. 

Though  his  false  finger  have  profaned  the  ring, 

Mine  shall  not  do  his  Julia  so  much  wrong. 

Jul.  She  thanks  you. 

Sil.  What  say’st  thou  ? 

Jul.  I  thank  you,  madam,  that  you  tender  her.19 
Poor  gentlewoman  !  my  master  wrongs  her  much. 

Sil.  Dost  thou  know  her? 

Jul.  Almost  as  well  as  I  do  know  myself : 

To  think  upon  her  woes  I  do  protest 
That  I  have  wept  a  hundred  several  times. 

Sil.  Belike  she  thinks  that  Proteus  hath  forsook  her. 

Jul.  I  think  she  doth  ;  and  that’s  her  cause  of  sorrow. 

Sil.  Is  she  not  passing  fair  ? 

Jul.  She  hath  been  fairer,  madam,  than  she  is  : 

When  she  did  think  my  master  loved  her  well, 

She,  in  my  judgment,  was  as  fair  as  you  ; 

But,  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass, 

And  threw  her  sun-expelling  mask  away,20 
The  air  hath  starved  the  roses  in  her  cheeks, 

19  That  is,  “  care  for  her,”  or  “  are  tender  of  her.”  To  tender  was  much 
used  in  that  way ;  and  Shakespeare  has  it  repeatedly.  So  in  Hamlet ,  i.  3, 
with  a  play  upon  the  word  :  “  Tender  yourself  more  dearly,  or  you’ll  tender 
me  a  fool.” 

20  It  seems  that  ladies,  when  going  out,  used  to  veil  their  beauty,  or  their 
want  of  it,  with  a  mask.  So  Stubbes,  in  his  Ajiatomie  of  Abuses  :  “  When 
they  use  to  ride  abroad,  they  have  masks  or  visors  made  of  velvet,  where¬ 
with  they  cover  their  faces,  having  holes  made  in  them  against  their  eyes, 
whereout  they  look.” 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


233 


And  pinch’d  the  lily-tincture  of  her  face, 

That21  now  she  is  become  as  black  as  I. 

Sil.  How  tall  was  she  ? 

Jul.  About  my  stature  :  for,  at  Pentecost, 

When  all  our  pageants  of  delight  were  play’d, 

Our  youth  got  me  to  play  the  woman’s  part, 

And  I  was  trimm’d  in  Madam  Julia’s  gown ; 

Which  served  me  as  fit,  by  all  men’s  judgments, 

As  if  the  garment  had  been  made  for  me  : 

Therefore  I  know  she  is  about  my  height. 

And  at  that  time  I  made  her  weep  a-good,22 
For  1  did  play  a  lamentable  part ; 

Madam,  ’twas  Ariadne,  passioning23 
For  Theseus’  perjury  and  unjust  flight ; 

Which  I  so  lively  acted  with  my  tears, 

That  my  poor  mistress,  moved  therewithal, 

Wept  bitterly ;  and,  would  I  might  be  dead, 

If  I  in  thought  felt  not  her  very  sorrow  ! 

Sil.  She  is  beholding24  to  thee,  gentle  youth  :  — 

Alas,  poor  lady,  desolate  and  left  !  — 

21  That ,  with  the  force  of  so  that ,  or  insomuch  that ,  occurs  continually  in 
these  plays. 

22  A-good  is  heartily  or  in  good  earnest.  So  in  Drayton’s  Dowsabell \ 
1593 : 

But  then  the  shepherd  piped  a-good, 

That  all  his  sheep  forsook  their  food 
To  hear  his  melody. 

23  To  passion  is  to  express  sorrow  or  emotion.  So  in  the  Poet’s  Venus 
and  Adonis  :  “  Dumbly  she  passions ,  franticly  she  doteth.” 

24  Beholding  was  continually  used  in  Shakespeare’s  time  where  we 
should  use  beholden  ;  the  active  form  with  the  passive  sense.  According  to 
Butler's  Grammar ,  1633,  beholding  “  signifyeth  to  respect  and  behold,  or 
look  upon  with  love  and  thanks  for  a  benefit  received.  So  that  this  English 
phrase,  I  am  beholding  to  you ,  is  as  much  as,  I  specially  respect  you  for 
some  special  kindness:  yet  some,  now-a-days,  had  rather  write  Beholden; 
i.e.,  obliged,  answering  to  that  teneri  et  firmiter  obligari .”  This  shows  that 
in  1633  the  form  beholden  was  growing  into  use.  Shakespeare  abounds  in 
similar  instances  of  the  indiscriminate  use  of  active  and  passive  forms. 


234 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  IV. 


I  weep  myself  to  think  upon  thy  words. 

Here,  youth,  there  is  my  purse  :  I  give  thee  this 
For  thy  sweet  mistress’  sake,  because  thou  lovest  her. 
Farewell. 

Jul.  And  she  shall  thank  you  for’t,  if  e’er  you  know  her.  — 

[Exit  Silvia  with  Attendants. 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman,  mild  and  beautiful ! 

I  hope  my  master’s  suit  will  be  but  cold, 

Since  she  respects  his  mistress’  love  so  much. 

Alas,  how  love  can  trifle  with  itself ! 

Here  is  her  picture  :  let  me  see  ;  I  think, 

If  I  had  such  a  tire,  this  face  of  mine 
Were  full  as  lovely  as  is  this  of  hers  : 

And  yet  the  painter  flatter’d  her  a  little, 

Unless  I  flatter  with  myself  too  much. 

Her  hair  is  auburn,  mine  is  perfect  yellow : 

If  that  be  all  the  difference  in  his  love, 

I’ll  get  me  such  a  colour’d  periwig.25 

Her  eyes  are  grey  as  glass ; 26  and  so  are  mine  : 

Ay,  but  her  forehead’s  low,  and  mine’s  as  high.27 
What  should  it  be  that  he  respects  in  her, 

25  False  hair  was  much  worn  by  the  ladies  in  Elizabeth’s  time,  probably 
from  a  general  desire  to  have  hair  like  the  Queen’s,  who  was  then  taken 
as  the  standard  of  beauty.  The  fashion  is  referred  to  in  The  Merchant , 
iii.  2  : 

So  are  those  crisped  snaky  golden  locks 
Which  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  the  wind, 

Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 
To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head. 

26  What  we  call  blue  eyes  were  always  described  as  grey  in  the  Poet’s 
time.  And  glass  was  not  colourless  then,  as  we  have  it,  but  of  a  light-blue 
tint.  So  that  “  eyes  grey  as  glass  ”  were  of  the  soft  azure  or  cerulean, 
such  as  usually  go  with  the  auburn  and  yellow  hair  of  Silvia  and  Julia. 

27  A  high  forehead  or  brow  was  considered  eminently  beautiful  in  the 
Poet’s  time.  Here,  again,  the  Queen’s  bald  brow  set  the  fashion ;  for,  as 
White  says,  “  there  are  fashions  even  in  beauty.” 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


235 


But  I  can  make  respective28  in  myself, 

If  this  fond  Love  were  not  a  blinded  god  ? 

Come,  shadow,  come,  and  take  this  shadow  up, 

For  ’tis  thy  rival.  O  thou  senseless  form, 

Thou  shalt  be  worshipp’d,  kiss’d,  loved,  and  adored  ! 

And,  were  there  sense  in  his  idolatry, 

My  substance  should  be  statue29  in  thy  stead. 

I’ll  use  thee  kindly  for  thy  mistress’  sake, 

That  used  me  so  ;  or  else,  by  Jove  I  vow, 

I  should  have  scratch’d  out  your  unseeing  eyes, 

To  make  my  master  out  of  love  with  thee  !  \_Exit . 


28  Respective  for  respectable.  The  same  usage  pointed  out  just  above  in 
note  24  holds  in  the  active  and  passive  forms  of  adjectives  as  well  as  in  those 
of  verbs  and  participles.  Shakespeare  is  full  of  cases  in  point ;  such  as 
inexpressive  for  inexpressible,  plausive  for  approvable,  comfortable  for  com¬ 
forting,  disputable  for  disputatious,  incredulous  for  incredible,  and  ever  so 
many  others. 

29  The  words  statue  and  picture  were  sometimes  used  interchangeably. 
Thus  Stowe,  speaking  of  Elizabeth’s  funeral :  “  When  they  beheld  her 
statue  ox  picture  lying  upon  the  coffin,  there  was  a  general  sighing.”  So 
too,  in  Massinger’s  City  Madam,  Frugal  wants  his  daughters  to  “  take  leave 
of  their  late  suitors’  statues  and  Luke  answers,  “  There  they  hang." 


236  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  V. 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I. — Milan.  An  Abbey. 

Enter  Eglamour. 

Egl.  The  Sun  begins  to  gild  the  western  sky ; 

And  now  it  is  about  the  very  hour 

That  Silvia,  at  Friar  Patrick’s  cell,  should  meet  me. 

She  will  not  fail ;  for  lovers  break  not  hours, 

Unless  it  be  to  come  before  their  time ; 

So  much  they  spur  their  expedition. 

See  where  she  comes.  — 

Enter  Silvia. 

Lady,  a  happy  evening  ! 

Sil.  Amen,  amen  !  Go  on,  good  Eglamour, 

Out  at  the  postern  by  the  abbey-wall : 

I  fear  I  am  attended  by  some  spies. 

Egl.  Fear  not :  the  forest  is  not  three  leagues  off ; 

If  we  recover  that,  we’re  sure  enough.  \_Exeunt. 


Scene  II.  —  The  Same.  A  Room  in  the  Duke’s  Palace. 

Enter  Thurio,  Proteus,  and  Julia  in  boy's  clothes . 

Thu.  Sir  Proteus,  what  says  Silvia  to  my  suit  ? 

Pro.  O,  sir,  I  find  her  milder  than  she  was ; 

And  yet  she  takes  exceptions  at  your  person. 

Thu.  What,  that  my  leg  is  too  long  ? 

Pro.  No  ;  that  it  is  too  little. 

Thu.  I’ll  wear  a  boot,  to  make  it  somewhat  rounder. 

Jul.  \_Aside.~\  But  love  will  not  be  spurr’d  to  what  it  loathes. 


SCENE  II.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


237 


Thu.  What  says  she  to  my  face  ? 

Pro.  She  says  it  is  a  fair  one. 

Thu.  Nay,  then  the  wanton  lies  ;  my  face  is  black. 

Pro.  But  pearls  are  fair ;  and  the  old  saying  is, 

Black  men  are  pearls  in  beauteous  ladies’  eyes. 

Jul.  [Aside.~\  ’Tis  true,  such  pearls  as  put  out  ladies’ 
eyes ; 

For  I  had  rather  wink  than  look  on  them. 

Thu.  How  likes  she  my  discourse  ? 

Pro.  Ill,  when  you  talk  of  war. 

Thu.  But  well,  when  I  discourse  of  love  and  peace  ? 

Jul.  [Aside.~]  But,  indeed,  better  when  you  hold  your 
peace. 

Thu.  What  says  she  to  my  valour  ? 

Pro.  O,  sir,  she  makes 

No  doubt  of  that. 

Jul.  [Aside. She  needs  not,  when  she  knows  it  cowardice. 
Thu.  What  says  she  to  my  birth? 

Pro.  That  you  are  well  derived. 

Jul.  [Aside. ~\  True  ;  from  a  gentleman  to  a  fool. 

Thu.  Considers  she  my  possessions  ? 

Pro.  O,  ay ;  and  pities  them. 

Thu.  Wherefore  ? 

Jul.  [Aside.~\  That  such  an  ass  should  owe  1  them. 

Pro.  That  they  are  out  by  lease.2 
Jul.  Here  comes  the  Duke. 

Enter  the  Duke. 

Duke.  How  now,  Sir  Proteus  !  how  now,  Thurio  ! 

Which  of  you  saw  Sir  Eglamour  of  late  ? 

1  Owe  for  own  ox  possess.  See  page  104,  note  7. 

2  Thurio  means  his  lands ;  but  Proteus  chooses  to  take  him  as  meaning 
his  mental  endowments,  which,  he  says,  are  out  of  his  keeping ,  or  “  out  by 
lease  ” ;  so  that  he,  lacking  them,  is  a  dunce. 


238 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  V. 


Thu.  Not  I. 

Pro.  Nor  I. 

Duke.  Saw  you  my  daughter? 

Pro.  Neither. 

Duke.  Why,  then  she’s  fled  unto  that  peasant  Valentine ; 
And  Eglamour  is  in  her  company. 

’Tis  true  ;  for  Friar  Laurence  met  them  both, 

As  he  in  penance  wander’d  through  the  forest : 

Him  he  knew  well;  and  guess’d  that  it  was  she, 

But,  being  mask’d,  he  was  not  sure  of  it : 

Besides,  she  did  intend  confession 

At  Patrick’s  cell  this  even  ;  and  there  she  was  not : 

These  likelihoods  confirm  her  flight  from  hence. 

Therefore,  I  pray  you,  stand  not  to  discourse, 

But  mount  you  presently  ;  and  meet  with  me 

Upon  the  rising  of  the  mountain-foot 

That  leads  toward  Mantua,  whither  they  are  fled : 

Dispatch,  sweet  gentlemen,  and  follow  me.  \_Exit. 

Thu.  Why,  this  it  is  to  be  a  peevish3  girl, 

That  flies  her  fortune  when  it  follows  her. 

I’ll  after,  more  to  be  revenged  on  Eglamour 

Than  for  the  love  of  reckless  Silvia.  \_Exit. 

Pro.  And  I  will  follow,  more  for  Silvia’s  love 
Than  hate  of  Eglamour,  that  goes  with  her.  [. Exit . 

Jul.  And  I  will  follow,  more  to  cross  that  love 
Than  hate  for  Silvia,  that  is  gone  for  love.  [Exit. 

Scene  III.  —  The  Forest. 

Enter  Outlaws  with  Silvia. 
i  Out.  Come,  come  ; 

Be  patient ;  we  must  bring  you  to  our  Captain. 

3  Peevish  for  foolish ,  the  more  common  meaning  of  the  word  in  Shake¬ 
speare’s  time. 


SCENE  IV.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


239 


Sil.  A  thousand  more  mischances  than  this  one 
Have  learn’d  me  how  to  brook  this  patiently. 

2  Out.  Come,  bring  her  away. 

1  Out.  Where  is  the  gentlemen  that  was  with  her  ? 

3  Out.  Being  nimble-footed,  he  hath  outrun  us, 

But  Moses  and  Valerius  follow  him. 

Go  thou  with  her  to  th’  west  end  of  the  wood ; 

There  is  our  Captain  :  we’ll  follow  him  that’s  fled ; 

The  thicket  is  beset,  he  cannot  ’scape. 

\_Exeunt  all  but  the' First  Outlaw  and  Silvia. 
1  Out.  Come,  I  must  bring  you  to  our  Captain’s  cave  : 
Fear  not ;  he  bears  an  honourable  mind, 

And  will  not  use  a  woman  lawlessly. 

Sil.  O  Valentine,  this  I  endure  for  thee  !  \_Exeunt. 


Scene  IV.  —  Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Valentine. 

Val.  How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man  ! 

These  shadowy,  desert,  unfrequented  woods 
I  better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns  : 

Here  can  I  sit  alone,  unseen  of  any, 

And  to  the  nightingale’s  complaining  notes 
Tune  my  distresses  and  record 1  my  woes. 

O  thou  that  dost  inhabit  in  my  breast, 

Leave  not  the  mansion  so  long  tenantless, 

Lest,  growing  ruinous,  the  building  fall, 

And  leave  no  memory  of  what  it  was  ! 

Repair  me  with  thy  presence,  Silvia ; 

Thou  gentle  nymph,  cherish  thy  fdrlorn  swain ! — [ Noise  within. 

1  To  record  was  used  for  to  sing.  So  in  Drayton’s  Eclogues :  “  Fair 
Philomel,  night-music  of  the  Spring,  sweetly  records  her  tuneful  harmony.” 
And  Cotgrave  explains  Regazoiuller ,  “To  report,  or  to  record ,  as  birds, 
one  another’s  warbling.” 


240 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  V. 


What  halloing  and  what  stir  is  this  to-day  ? 

Tis  sure,  my  mates,  that  make  their  wills  their  law, 

Have  some  unhappy  passenger  in  chase  : 

They  love  me  well ;  yet  I  have  much  to-do2 
To  keep  them  from  uncivil  outrages. 

Withdraw  thee,  Valentine  :  who’s  this  comes  here?  [. Retires . 

Enter  Proteus,  Silvia,  and  Julia  in  boy's  clothes. 

Pro.  Madam,  this  service  I  have  done  for  you,  — 

Though  you  respect  not  aught  your  servant  doth,  — 

To  hazard  life,  and  rescue  you  from  him 

That  would  have  forced  your  honour  and  your  love  : 

Vouchsafe  me,  for  my  meed,  but  one  fair  look ; 

A  smaller  boon  than  this  I  cannot  beg, 

And  less  than  this,  I’m  sure,  you  cannot  give. 

Vat.  \_Aside.~\  How  like  a  dream  is  this  I  see  and  hear  ! 
Love,  lend  me  patience  to  forbear  awhile. 

Sil.  O  miserable,  unhappy  that  I  am  ! 

Pro.  Unhappy  were  you,  madam,  ere  I  came  ; 

But  by  my  coming  I  have  made  you  happy. 

Sil.  By  thy  approach  thou  makest  me  most  unhappy. 

Jul.  \_Aside. ]  And  me,  when  he  approacheth  to  your 
presence. 

Sil.  Had  I  been  seized  by  a  hungry  lion, 

I  would  have  been  a  breakfast  to  the  beast, 

Rather  than  have  false  Proteus  rescue  me. 

O,  Heaven  be  judge  how  I  love  Valentine, 

Whose  life’s  as  tender  to  me  as  my  soul ; 

And  full  as  much  —  for  more  there  cannot  be  — 

I  do  detest  false  perjured  Proteus  ! 

Therefore  be  gone,  solicit  me  no  more. 

2  The  Poet  uses  to-do  repeatedly  with  the  exact  meaning  of  ado.  So  in 
Hamlet ,  ii.  2:  “Faith,  there  has  been  much  to-do  on  both  sides.”  Com¬ 
monly  printed  to  do. 


SCENE  IV.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


241 


Pro.  What  dangerous  action,  stood  it  next  to  death, 
Would  I  not  undergo  for  one  calm  look? 

O,  ’tis  the  curse  in  love,  and  still  approved,3 
When  women  cannot  love  where  they’re  beloved  ! 

Sil.  When  Proteus  cannot  love  where  he’s  beloved. 

Read  over  Julia’s  heart,  thy  first-best  love, 

For  whose  dear  sake  thou  didst  then  rend  thy  faith 
Into  a  thousand  oaths  ;  and  all  those  oaths 
Descended  into  perjury,  to  love  me.4 
Thou  hast  no  faith  left  now,  unless  thou’dst  two, 

And  that’s  far  worse  than  none  ;  better  have  none 
Than  plural  faith,  which  is  too  much  by  one  : 

Thou  counterfeit  to  thy  true  friend  ! 

Pro.  In  love 

Who  respects  friend  ? 

Sil.  All  men  but  Proteus. 

Pro.  Nay,  if  the  gentle  spirit  of  moving  words 
Can  no  way  change  you  to  a  milder  form, 

I’ll  woo  you  like  a  soldier,  at  arms’  end, 

And  love  you  ’gainst  love’s  nature,  —  I  will  force  ye. 

Sil.  O  Heaven  ! 

Pro.  I’ll  force  thee  yield  to  my  desire. 

Val.  [  Coining  forward.~\  Ruffian,  let  go  that  rude  uncivil 
touch,  — 

Thou  friend  of  an  ill  fashion  ! 

Pro.  Valentine ! 

Val.  Thou  common  friend,  that’s  without  faith  or  love,  — 
For  such  a  friend  is  now ;  —  thou  treacherous  man  ! 

Thou  hast  beguiled  my  hopes ;  nought  but  mine  eye 
Could  have  persuaded  me  :  I  dare  not  say 
I  have  one  friend  alive ;  thou  wouldst  disprove  me. 

3  Approved  is  made  good ,  or  proved  true.  The  old  sense  of  the  word, 
which  occurs  very  often  so  in  Shakespeare. 

4  That  is,  “  in  loving  me.”  See  page  207,  note  12. 


242 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT  V. 


Who  should  be  trusted,  when  one’s  own  right  hand 
Is  perjured  to  the  bosom?  Proteus, 

I’m  sorry  I  must  never  trust  thee  more, 

But  count  the  world  a  stranger  for  thy  sake. 

The  private  wound  is  deep’st :  O  time  most  curst, 

’Mongst  all  foes  that  a  friend  should  be  the  worst ! 

Pro .  My  shame  and  guilt  confound  me.  — 

Forgive  me,  Valentine  :  if  hearty  sorrow 
Be  a  sufficient  ransom  for  offence, 

I  tender’t  here  ;  I  do  as  truly  suffer 
As  e’er  I  did  commit. 

Val.  Then  I  am  paid  ; 

And  once  again  I  do  receive  thee  honest. 

Who  by  repentance  is  not  satisfied 

Is  nor  of  Heaven  nor  Earth ;  for  these  are  pleased ; 

By  penitence  th’  Eternal’s  wrath’s  appeased  : 

And,  that  my  love  may  appear  plain  and  free, 

All  that  was  mine  in  Silvia  I  give  thee.5 

Jul.  O  me  unhappy  !  [Faints. 

Pro .  Look  to  the  boy. 

Val.  Why,  boy  !  why,  wag  !  how  now  !  what’s  the  matter  ? 
look  up ;  speak. 

Jul.  O  good  sir,  my  master  charged  me  to  deliver  a  ring 
to  Madam  Silvia ;  which,  out  of  my  neglect,  was  never  done. 

Pro.  Where  is  that  ring,  boy  ? 

6  A  strange  dramatic  freak !  almost  transporting  us  at  once  into  the 
theatrical  world,  or  rather  no-world,  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Some 
editors  have  tried  very  hard  to  make  the  passage  look  reasonable;  but 
there  is  an  extravagance  about  it  that  will  not  yield  to  editorial  skill.  Dyce 
no  doubt  takes  the  right  view  of  it :  “  This  ‘  act  of  friendship  ’  on  the  part 
of  Valentine  is  indeed  ridiculously  ‘  over-strained  ’ ;  nor  would  Shakespeare 
probably,  if  the  play  had  been  written  in  his  maturer  years,  have  made 
Valentine  give  way  to  such  ‘  a  sudden  flight  of  heroism  ’ ;  but  The  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona  was  undoubtedly  an  early  production  of  the  Poet ; 
and  in  stories  popular  during  his  youth  he  may  have  found  similar  instances 
of  romantic  generosity.” 


SCENE  IV.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


243 


Jul.  Here  ’tis  ;  this  is  it.  [  Gives  a  ring. 

Pro.  How  !  let  me  see  :  — 

Why,  ’tis  the  ring  I  gave  to  Julia. 

Jul.  O,  cry  you  mercy,6  sir,  I  have  mistook  : 

This  is  the  ring  you  sent  to  Silvia.  [Shows  another  ring. 

Pro.  But  how  earnest  thou  by  this  ring  ? 

At  my  depart  I  gave  this  unto  Julia. 

Jul.  And  Julia  herself  did  give  it  me ; 

And  Julia  herself  hath  brought  it  hither. 

Pro.  How  !  Julia  ! 

Jul.  Behold  her  that  gave  aim  to  all  thy  oaths, 

And  entertain’d  ’em  deeply  in  her  heart : 

How  oft  hast  thou  with  perjury  cleft  the  root ! 7 
O  Proteus,  let  this  habit  make  thee  blush  ! 

Be  thou  ashamed  that  I  have  took  upon  me 
Such  an  immodest  raiment,  —  if  shame  live 
In  a  disguise  of  love  :  8 
It  is  the  lesser  blot,  modesty  finds, 

Women  to  change  their  shapes  than  men  their  minds. 

Pro.  Than  men  their  minds  !  ’tis  true.  O  Heaven,  were 
man 

But  constant,  he  were  perfect !  that  one  error 
Fills  him  with  faults ;  makes  him  run  through  all  sins  : 
Inconstancy  falls  off  ere  it  begins. 

What  is  in  Silvia’s  face,  but  I  may  spy 
More  fresh  in  Julia’s  with  a  constant  eye? 

Val.  Come,  come,  a  hand  from  either  : 

Let  me  be  bless’d  to  make  this  happy  close ; 

’Twere  pity  two  such  friends  should  be  long  foes. 

6  “  Cry  you  mercy  ”  is  exactly  the  same  in  sense  as  “  ask  your  pardon." 
Often  used  so  by  the  Poet. 

7  The  allusion  to  archery  is  continued.  To  cleave  the  pin  was  in  archery 
to  hit  the  mark  in  the  centre,  or  what  is  here  called  the  root.  So,  two  lines 
before,  that  which  gave  aim  was  the  mark  at  which  the  shafts  were  aimed. 

8  The  meaning  appears  to  be,  “  If  it  is  any  shame  to  wear  a  disguise  in 
such  a  cause.” 


244  THE  TW0  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  ACT  V. 

Pro .  Bear  witness,  Heaven,  I  have  my  wish  for  ever. 

Jul.  And  I  mine. 

Enter  Outlaws,  with  the  Duke  and  Thurio. 

Outlaws.  A  prize,  a  prize,  a  prize  ! 

Val.  Forbear,  forbear,  I  say  !  it  is  my  lord  the  Duke.  — 
Your  Grace  is  welcome  to  a  man  disgraced, 

Banished  Valentine. 

Duke.  Sir  Valentine  ! 

Tim.  Yonder  is  Silvia ;  and  Silvia’s  mine. 

Val.  Thurio,  give  back,  or  else  embrace  thy  death ; 

Come  not  within  the  measure  of  my  wrath  : 

Do  not  name  Silvia  thine ;  if  once  again, 

Milano  shall  not  hold  thee.  Here  she  stands  : 

Take  but  possession  of  her  with  a  touch ; 

I  dare  thee  but  to  breathe  upon  my  love. 

Thu.  Sir  Valentine,  I  care  not  for  her,  I  ; 

I  hold  him  but  a  fool  that  will  endanger 
His  body  for  a  girl  that  loves  him  not : 

I  claim  her  not,  and  therefore  she  is  thine. 

Duke.  The  more  degenerate  and  base  art  thou, 

To  make  such  means9  for  her  as  thou  hast  done, 

And  leave  her  on  such  slight  conditions.  — 

Now,  by  the  honour  of  my  ancestry, 

I  do  applaud  thy  spirit,  Valentine, 

And  think  thee  worthy  of  an  empress’  love  : 

Know,  then,  I  here  forget  all  former  griefs, 

Cancel  all  grudge,  repeal  thee  home10  again. 

Plead  a  new  state  in  thy  unrivall’d  merit, 

To  which  I  thus  subscribe,  —  Sir  Valentine, 

9  To  make  means  for  a  thing  is  to  use  means  or  take  fains  in  order  to 
gain  it. 

10  To  repeal  one  home  is  elliptical  language,  meaning  to  repeal  one’s 
sentence  of  exile,  and  let  him  come  home. 


SCENE  IV.  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  245 

Thou  art  a  gentleman,  and  well  derived ; 

Take  thou  thy  Silvia,  for  thou  hast  deserved  her. 

Val.  I  thank  your  Grace  ;  the  gift  hath  made  me  happy. 

I  now  beseech  you,  for  your  daughter’s  sake, 

To  grant  one  boon  that  I  shall  ask  of  you. 

Duke.  I  grant  it,  for  thine  own,  whate’er  it  be. 

Val.  These  banish’d  men,  that  I  have  kept11  withal. 

Are  men  endued  with  worthy  qualities  : 

Forgive  them  what  they  have  committed  here, 

And  let  them  be  recall’d  from  their  exile  : 

They  are  reformed,  civil,  full  of  good, 

And  fit  for  great  employment,  worthy  lord. 

Duke.  Thou  hast  prevail’d ;  I  pardon  them  and  thee  : 
Dispose  of  them  as  thou  know’st  their  deserts.  — 

Come,  let  us  go  :  we  will  include12  all  jars 
With  triumphs,13  mirth,  and  rare  solemnity. 

Val.  And,  as  we  walk  along,  I  dare  be  bold 
With  our  discourse  to  make  your  Grace  to  smile. 

What  think  you  of  this  page,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  I  think  the  boy  hath  grace  in  him ;  he  blushes. 

Val.  I  warrant  you,  my  lord,  more  grace  than  boy. 

Duke.  What  mean  you  by  that  saying  ? 

Val.  Please  you,  I’ll  tell  you  as  we  pass  along, 

That  you  will  wonder  what  hath  fortuned.  — 

Come,  Proteus  ;  ’tis  your  penance,  but  to  hear 
The  story  of  your  loves  discovered  : 

That  done,  our  day  of  marriage  shall  be  yours ; 

One  feast,  one  house,  one  mutual  happiness.  \_Exeunt. 

11  The  Poet  repeatedly  uses  kept  in  the  sense  of  dwelt  or  lived.  So  in 
The  Merchant ,  iii.  3 :  “It  is  the  most  impenetrable  cur  that  ever  kept  with 
men.” 

12  Include  in  the  sense  of  conclude  or  put  an  end  to.  So  the  Latin  poets, 
and  also  the  later  prose  writers,  sometimes  use  the  verb  i?icludo. 

13  Triumphs  here  means  pageants,  such  as  masques  and  shows.  The 
word  was  often  used  thus. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


- - 

Act  i.,  Scene  i. 

Page  162.  That's  a  deep  story  of  a  deeper  love  ; 

For  he  was  more  than  over  shoes  in  love. 

Val.  ’  Tis  true  ;  and  you  are  over  boots  in  love.  —  In  the  last 
of  these  lines,  the  original  has  for  instead  of  and.  The  logical  unfit¬ 
ness  of  for  is  evident  enough.  Collier’s  second  folio  substitutes  but. 

P.  162.  Val.  No, 

I  will  not ,  for  it  boots  not. 

Pro.  What? 

Val.  .  To  be 

In  love ,  where  scorn  is  bought  with  groans  ;  coy  looks 
With  heart-sore  sighs  ;  one  fading  moment's  mirth 
With  twenty  watchful,  &c.  —  The  original  has  the  verse  badly 
disordered  here,  printing  “  No,  I  will  not,  for  it  boots  thee  not  ”  all  in 
one  line,  running  “  To  be  ”  into  the  same  line  with  “  In  love,”  &c.,  and 
setting  “  coy  looks  ”  at  the  beginning  of  the  next  line.  The  reading 
and  arrangement  in  the  text  are  Walker’s. 

P.  163.  At  Milan  let  me  hear  from  thee  by  letters. — The  original 
has  “  To  Millaine.”  The  correction  is  Malone’s. 

P.  164.  /leave  myself  my  friends,  and  all,  for  love.  —  The  original 
has  love  instead  of  leave.  Corrected  by  Pope. 

P.  164.  Thou,  Julia,  thou  hast  metamorphosed  me ; 

Made  me  neglect  my  studies,  lose  my  time. 

War  with  good  counsel,  set  the  world  at  nought, 

Make  wit  with  musing  weak,  &c.  —  The  original  has  “ Made 
wit  with  musing  weake.”  This  implies  thou  to  be  the  subject  of  the 

247 


248  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


last  clause,  —  “  thou  hast  made  wit,”  &c.;  whereas  the  sense  intended 
evidently  is,  “  thou  hast  caused  me  to  make  wit,”  &c.  The  change  of 
made  to  make  was  proposed  by  Johnson.  Mr.  W.  W.  Williams  justly 
observes  that,  “  by  accepting  the  ordinary  reading,  we  suppose  Julia  to 
affect  the  wit  of  Proteus  by  her  own  musing  ;  whereas  her  influence 
was  only  indirect.” 


Act  i.,  Scene  2. 

P  170.  Let's  see  your  song.  Why,  how  now ,  minion!  —  So  Han- 
mer.  The  original  omits  Why. 


Act  11.,  Scene  i. 

P.  177.  And  now  you  are  so  meta7norphosed  with  a  mistress,  that , 
when  /  look  on  you ,  &c.  — ■  So  Singer  and  Collier’s  second  folio.  The 
original  lacks  so. 

P.  179.  For  he,  being  in  love,  could  not  see  to  garter  his  hose  ; 

And  you,  being  in  love ,  cannot  see  to  beyond  your  nose.  —  The 
old  text  reads  “  cannot  see  to  put  on  your  hose."  Either  this  is  stark 
nonsense,  or  else  it  involves  a  riddle  which  nobody  has  been  able  to 
guess.  The  reading  in  the  text  was  proposed  by  the  Cambridge 
Editors. 


Act  11.,  Scene  3. 

P.  1 84.  O,  that  the  shoe  could  speak  now  like  a  wood  woman  !  — 
The  original  reads  “  Oh  that  she  could  speake  now  like  a  would 
woman.”  The  correction  of  she  to  the  shoe  is  Ilanmer’s  ;  of  would  to 
wood,  Theobald’s.  Pope  changes  would  to  old,  which  may  be  the 
better  reading. 

P.  184.  In  my  tail!  —  So  Hanmer.  The  old  text  has  “In  thy 
tail.” 


Act  11.,  Scene  4. 

P.  189.  Sil.  That  you  are  welcome  ? 

Pro.  No  ;  that  you  are  worthless. — < 

So  Johnson,  and  with  evident  propriety.  The  original  is  without  No. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


249 


P.  189.  Serv.  Madam ,  my  lord  your  father  would  speak  with  yoti. 
—  So  Theobald.  The  original  assigns  this  speech  to  Thurio.  Some 
modern  editors  make  Thurio  go  out  when  Proteus  enters,  and  re-enter 
here,  to  do  the  servant’s  message  ;  which  is  hardly  consistent  with 
what  follows,  —  “Come,  Sir  Thurio.”  Besides,  the  old  copies  have 
many  clear  instances  of  speeches  wrongly  assigned.  So,  in  v.  2,  of 
this  play,  one  of  Julia’s  speeches  is  assigned  to  Proteus,  and  one  to 
Thurio. 


P.  189.  Come ,  Sir  Thurio , 

Go  you  with  me.  —  So  Capell.  The  old  copies  are  without 

you. 

P.  189.  Those  high-imperious  thoughts  have  punish'd  me 

With  bitter  fasts ,  &c.  —  The  original  reads  “  Whose  high- 
imperious  thoughts  ” ;  whereupon  Lettsom  remarks  as  follows :  “  The 
context  imperiously  commands  us  to  read  Those  with  Johnson.  Mr. 
Staunton  confirms  Johnson’s  conjecture  while  he  opposes  it.” 

P.  191.  Why,  then  let  her  alone.  —  So  Hanmer.  The  old  text 
lacks  Why. 

P.  19 1.  And  then  I'll  presently  attend  on  you.  —  So  Capell  and 
Collier’s  second  folio.  The  original  omits  on.  Walker  says,  “  Surely 
‘  attend  on  you.’  ” 

P.  192.  Is  it  mine  eye,  or  Valentinus’  praise?  —  The  original  lacks 
eye,  and  prints  “  Valentines  praise.”  Warburton  proposed  eye,  and 
Theobald  inserted  it.  The  form  Valentinus  has  occurred  before. 

Act  11.,  Scene  5. 

P.  193.  Launce  !  by  mine  honesty,  welcome  to  Milan !  — The  original 
has  Padua.  Evidently  wrong,  as  the  scene  is  in  Milan. 

P.  194.  If  thou  wilt  go  with  me  to  the  alehouse ,  so;  if  not,  thou  art 
an  Hebrew.  —  So  the  second  folio.  The  first  omits  so,  after  alehouse. 

Act  11.,  Scene  6. 

P.  195.  If  I  lose  them,  this  find  I  by  their  loss.  —  So  Theobald.  The 
original  has  thus  instead  of  this. 


250 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA, 


Act  ii.,  Scene  7. 

P.  197.  And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  strays , 

With  willing  sport,  to  the  wide  ocean.  —  The  original  has 
“ wilde  ocean.”  The  correction  is  from  Collier’s  second  folio.  The 
two  words  were  often  confounded  ;  and  Collier  rightly  observes  that 
“  Julia  is  referring  to  the  expanse  of  the  sea,  and  not  to  its  turbulence.” 

P.  199.  And  instances  o’  the  infinite  of  love. — The  original  has 
“  instances  of  infinite  of  love,”  which  the  second  folio  changes  to 
“  instances  as  infinite.”  Malone  reads  “instances  of  the  infinite.”  See 
foot-note  7. 

Act  hi.,  Scene  i. 

P.  203.  There  is  a  lady  in  Milano  here.  — The  original  has  Verona; 
which  cannot  be  right,  as  the  scene  is  plainly  in  Milan.  The  correc¬ 
tion  is  from  Collier’s  second  folio.  “Nothing,”  says  Dyce,  “was  more 
common  than  for  poets  to  use  different  forms  of  the  same  name,  as  the 
metre  might  require.”  So,  in  this  play,  we  have  Valentinus  for 
Valentine. 

P.  207.  I  fly  not  death ,  to  fly  this  deadly  doom.  —  So  Dyce.  The 
original  has  “  to  fly  his  deadly  doom.”  There  appears  nothing  for  his 
to  refer  to.  Singer  plausibly  reads  “  to  fly  is  deadly  doom  ”  ;  and 
notes,  “  Valentine  has  before  said  ‘  to  be  banished  from  Silvia  is  to 
die.’  He  now  says,  I  do  not  escape  death  by  departing  ;  if  I  fly  hence, 
I  fly  away  from  life.”  But  Singer  appears  not  to  have  duly  remarked 
Shakespeare’s  gerundial  use  of  the  infinitive.  See  foot-note  12. 

P.  209.  And  yet  I  have  the  wit  to  think  my  master  is  a  kind  of 
knave  :  but  that's  all  one ,  if  he  be  but  one  in  love.  —  The  original  reads 
“  if  he  be  but  one  knave  ” ;  out  of  which  nobody  has  been  able  to 
make  any  sense.  Warburton  reads  “but  one  kind"  ;  Hanmer,  “but 
one  kind  of  knave.”  The  reading  in  the  text  was  proposed  by  Staun¬ 
ton,  and,  I  think,  accords  very  well  with  the  context,  and  with  the 
speaker’s  humour  of  speech.  Repetition  of  words  is  one  of  the  com¬ 
monest  of  misprints  ;  and  it  seems  most  likely  that  knave  got  repeated 
here  by  mistake  from  the  line  before. 

P.  210.  The  long  cate-log  of  her  conditions.  —  The  original  has  con - 
dition ;  but  what  follows  shows  it  should  be  conditions.  Corrected  in 
the  fourth  folio. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


251 


P.  210.  With  my  master’s  ship?  Why,  it  is  at  sea.  —  The  original 
has  “  With  my  Mastership  ?  ”  Corrected  by  Theobold. 

P.  21 1.  She  is  not  to  be  kiss’d  fasting ,  in  respect  of  her  breath.  — • 
The  original  omits  kiss'd \  which  was  supplied  by  Rowe.  Dyce  sup¬ 
ports  it  by  an  apt  quotation  from  Webster’s  Duchess  of  Malfi ,  ii.  1  : 
“  I  would  sooner  eat  a  dead  pigeon,  taken  from  the  soles  of  the  feet  of 
one  sick  of  the  plague,  than  kiss  one  of  you  fasting.” 

Act  hi.,  Scene  2. 

P.  214.  For  thou  has  shown  some  sign  of  good  desert.  —  Collier’s 
second  folio  reads  “  sure  sign  ”  ;  which  I  am  apt  to  think  the  right 
lection. 

P.  215.  But  say ,  this  wean  her  love  from  Valentine. — The  old 
copies  have  “  weed  her  love.”  Rowe  made  the  change,  which  is  alscc 
found  in  Collier’s  second  folio. 

P.  216.  When  you  may  temper  her.  —  So  Collier’s  second  folio. 
The  old  copies  read  Where. 

P.  216.  And  frame  some  feeling  Vines 

That  may  discover  such  integrity.  —  The  original  has  line  in¬ 
stead  of  lines,  —  the  reading  proposed  by  Mr.  Swynfen  Jervis.  The 
old  copies  abound  in  singulars  and  plurals  misprinted  for  each  other. 
—  Collier’s  second  folio  changes  “  such  integrity  ”  to  “  strict  integrity.” 
Very  plausible  at  first  right ;  but  misses  the  right  sense.  Lettsom  sug¬ 
gests  “  such  idolatry."  Plausible,  again.  But  see  foot-note  6. 

Act  iv.,  Scene  i. 

P.  217.  O,  sir ,  we  are  undone  !  —  So  Capell.  The  old  text  omits  O. 

P.  218.  We'll  have  him  :  —  Sir,  a  word.  —  So  Walker.  The  old 
text  has  Sirs.  But  it  appears  that  the  address  is  to  Valentine  only. 

P.  220.  Come,  go  with  us,  we'll  bring  thee  to  our  cave, 

And  shoio  thee  all  the  treasure  we  have  got ; 

Which,  with  ourselves ,  shall  rest  at  thy  dispose. — The  original 
has  crewes  for  cave,  and  all  instead  of  shall.  The  first  correction  is 


252 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


from  Collier’s  second  folio,  and  accords  with  what  is  said  in  v.  3 : 
“  Come,  I  must  bring  you  to  our  Captain’s  cave."  The  other  correction 
is  Pope’s. 

Act  iv.,  Scene  2. 

P.  222.  How  now  !  you’re  sadder  than  you  were  before.  —  So  Heath 
and  Walker.  The  original  has  “  are  you  sadder,”  &c. 

P.  225.  Enter  Eglamour.  —  Here  the  original  and  also  the  most 
of  modern  editions  mark  the  beginning  of  a  new  scene  :  “  Scene  iii. 
The  Same."  As  there  is  confessedly  no  change  of  place,  but  only  of 
persons,  there  is  plainly  no  cause  for  marking  a  new  scene.  The  same 
occurs  again  a  little  after,  where  we  have  “ Enter  Launce,  with  his 
Dog" ;  the  editions  aforesaid  print  “Scene  iv.  The  Same."  Thus 
they  mark  as  three  distinct  scenes  what  is  in  fact  only  a  continuation 
of  one  and  the  same  scene,  with  two  changes  of  persons.  The  arrange¬ 
ment  in  the  text  is  by  Dyce. 

P.  226.  Valiant  and  wise,  remorseful ,  well-accomplisli1  d.  —  So 
Pope.  The  original  lacks  and,  thus  making  a  bad  halt  in  the  verse, 
and  one  quite  out  of  place. 

P.  228.  How  many  masters  would  do  this  for  their  servant  ?  —  So 
Pope.  The  old  text  has  his  instead  of  their. 

P.  229.  What,  didst  thou  offer  her  this  cur  from  me  ?  —  So  Collier’s 
second  folio.  The  original  lacks  cur.  I  cannot  think  the  Poet  meant 
such  a  gap  in  the  verse  here. 

P.  229.  The  other  squirrel  was  stolen  from  me  by  the  hangman  boys. 
—  So  Singer,  very  happily  ;  and  Dyce  notes  that  “  the  folio  —  which 
is  so  frequently  faulty  in  adding  s  to  words  —  has  ‘By  the  Hangmans 
boyes.’  ”  See  foot-note  14. 

P.  230.  Well,  well,  give  her  that  ring,  and  therewithal 

This  letter.  —  The  second  well  is  wanting  in  the  old  text. 
Added  by  Walker. 

P.  232.  As  easily  as  I  do  tear  this  paper. — The  original  has  his 
instead  of  this.  The  correction  is  Dyce’s. 


CRITICAL  NOTES. 


253 


P.  234.  /  hope  my  znaster's  suit  will  be  but  cold , 

Since  she  respects  his  mistress'  love  so  much.  —  So  Hanmer. 
The  original  has  “respects  my  Mistris  love.”  Doubtless  my  got  re¬ 
peated  by  mistake  from  the  line  before. 

Act  v.,  Scene  2. 

P.236.  Jul.  [Aside.]  But  love  will  not  be  spurr'd,  &c.  —  The 
original  assigns  this  speech  to  Proteus,  and  Julia’s  next  speech  to 
Thurio.  The  first  was  corrected  by  Boswell,  the  other  by  Rowe. 

P.  237.  But,  indeed,  better  when  you  hold  your  peace. — The  orig¬ 
inal  reads  “  But  better  indeed."  Corrected  by  Dyce. 

P.  237.  Which  of  you  saw  Sir  Eglamour  of  late?  —  So  the  fourth 
folio.  The  earlier  editions  omit  Sir. 

Act  v.,  Scene  4. 

P.  239.  These  shadozvy,  desert,  unfrequented  zvoods.  —  The  original 
has  “This  shadowy  desert,”  See.,  thus  making  desert  a  substantive. 
The  correction  is  made  in  Collier’s  second  folio  ;  but  Dyce  says  he  had 
changed  This  to  These  long  before  that  volume  was  known;  and  he 
quotes  appositely  from  Peele’s  David  and  Bethsabe  :  “  To  desert  woods , 
and  hills  with  lightning  scorch’d.” 

P.  240.  ’Tis  sure,  my  mates,  that  make  their  zvills  their  law. 

Have  some  unhappy  passenger  in  chase.  —  The  original  has 
“These  are  my  mates”;  which  does  not  connect  well  with  what  fol¬ 
lows.  The  correction  is  Singer’s.  Collier’s  second  folio  reads  “  These 
my  rude  mates.” 

P.  241.  I'll  woo  you  like  a  soldier,  at  arms'  end, 

And  love  you  'gainst  love’s  nature,  —  I  will  force  ye.  —  The 
old  text  has  the  second  line  thus :  “  And  love  you  ’gainst  the  nature 
of  Love:  force  ye.”  Walker  notes  that  the  metre  of  this  line  “is 
evidently  out  of  joint.”  The  changes  here  made  rectify  the  metre 
without  altering  the  sense.  As  Proteus  says,  in  the  next  line,  “  I’ll 
force  thee  yield  to  my  desire,”  Walker  observes  that  “one  of  these 
forces  must  be  wrong.”  But  he  suggests  no  remedy,  nor  can  I. 


254 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


P.  241.  Thou  common  friend ’  that's  without  faith  or  love , — 

For  such  a  friend  is  now,  —  thou  treacherous  man,  &c.  —  The 
original  reads  “  For  such  is  a  friend  now,”  and  lacks  thou,  which  was 
supplied  in  the  second  folio.  I  suspect  the  true  reading  to  be,  “  For 
such  a  friend  art  thou" ;  that  is,  a  friend  “without  faith  or  love.” 
But  the  whole  speech  evinces  either  extreme  rawness  or  extreme  haste 
in  the  writing. 

P.  241.  Nought  but  mine  eye 

Could  have  persuaded  me  :  I  dare  not  say 
I  have  one  friend  alive ;  & c.  —  So  Pope.  The  original  has 
“  now  I  dare  not  say.” 

P.  242.  Who  shotdd  be  trusted,  when  one's  own  right  hand 

Is  perjured  to  the  bosom  ? — The  original  omits  own,  and  the 
second  folio  completes  the  verse  by  printing  “  Who  should  be  trusted 
now,"  &c.  The  correction  in  the  text  is  Johnson’s. 

P.242.  The  private  wound  is  deep'st:  O  time  most  curst.  —  So 
Johnson.  *  The  original  has  “  most  accurst." 

P.  243.  Why,  ’tis  the  ring.  I  gave  to  Julia.  —  The  original  reads 
“  Why  this  is  the  ring  ”  ;  which  presents  such  a  hitch  in  the  verse,  that 
I  can  hardly  believe  Shakespeare  to  have  written  it.  And  we  have  re¬ 
peated  instances  of  this  misprinted  for  'tis.  Walker  thinks  the  Poet 
may  have  written  “  this’  the  ring,”  as  he  no  doubt  sometimes  made  and 
marked  contractions  in  that  way. 

P.  244.  Do  not  name  Silvia  thine ;  if  once  again, 

Milano  shall  not  hold  thee.  —  So  Collier’s  second  folio.  The 
original  has  Verona,  which  cannot  be  right.  Other  changes  have  been 
made  ;  but  Milano  best  meets  the  two  demands  of  sense  and  metre. 

P.  245.  What  think  you  of  this  page,  my  lord?  —  To  fill  up  the 
verse,  Walker  suggests  “  my  xvorthy  lord,”  and  Collier’s  second  folio 
has  “  this  stripling  page.”  I  should  prefer  “  my  noble  lord.” 


